


The Prophet Just Isn't As Pretty

by Eureka234



Series: I Was There When You Wanted Me Least [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bromance, Dark Inquisitor, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Drug Addiction, Eventual Smut, Evil Inquisitor, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Other, POV Third Person, Red Lyrium, Slow Burn, Templar Inquisitor, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7077811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka234/pseuds/Eureka234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The Conclave was when the World was due to be reborn, but Samson didn't think it was supposed to happen like this. His master's ritual went wrong. Before Samson can discover who did it, he has to figure out how he got in a prison and why his hand is glowing green.  </p><p>This is an AU sequel to "Once We Were" and "Samson's Shield of Shame", but it can be read without knowledge of these stories. </p><p>Dragon Age Kink Meme prompt "Samson Inquisitor" here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16181.html?thread=62691893#t62691893</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frostback Mountains I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I saw the "Samson Inquisitor" prompt I had to write this. I am addicted to writing Samson. It is a problem! I am trying to finish 3 stories so I don't think I will update this one until after, but please let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you to Anla'Shok for feedback on this chapter from the perspective of someone who hasn't played any DA. I have implemented it.

Those Blighted voices… they never shut up. Didn't matter how much of the blue he took, or the red, they just liked to get him in a snit. The agony of a headache was an experience he was accustomed to, whereas his body felt coiled, a physical hurt, like a stranger had tossed him onto the floor or stepped on him.

The floor was damp and horrid, like a prison, though not the Gallows- a filthier, sickening wetness hung about it, closing in on him, festering growth on his skin.

"Leliana," boomed a voice, as footsteps vibrated into his ear from his head on the floor, "There is little to discuss. You cannot fathom of a more justifiable action? It is simple. We kill him."

 _Rightio, so it's not the army calling_ , Samson realized slowly, _there are actual people about._

No voices in his head, but outside. It was hard to decide which ones he preferred.

"But he is weak, Cassandra," came a half-Orlesian voice that hurt his ears for a different reason. Those accents were a terror, "We can keep his hopes empty, and it shall reserve plenty of opportunity to manipulate him. Remember, his mark may be useful. Hate or abhor him, we need _that_."

 _A mark?_ Samson didn't understand. _What are these ladies on about?_

"Manipulation." The one named Cassandra stopped marching. She was closer, louder. "I…. you are right. I agree. We must strive to see what little reason clings underneath his boots."

There was no denying it. Everything hurt, but nothing more than their voices.

" _Shudddappp_ …" Samson groaned, trying to roll away from them, but it was as much effort as pushing a bolder up a mountain. Not worth it.

With a wooshing sound like the crash of waves or thunder a vibrant green awakened from the other side of his closed eyelids. His palm seared like a blade had struck it, or a narrow electrical current. It felt like it was radiating from _his_ hand.

"What…" he grumbled. Did these women give him something? Corypheus was about to succeed in his plan and then… Samson woke here, captured by whom he assumed were his enemies. "What the Blighted shit are you on 'bout?"

"You…" Cassandra sounded angry. She gripped onto one the gauntlet of the green palm and pulled it up, making his shoulder joint scream in protest. "Are you trying to provoke the Inquisition forces?"

"Yes. _Are_ you?" Leliana tried to sound equally important. "There are methods to reprimand you if you continue to be obstructive."

"Do we need him or not?" Cassandra hissed through gritted teeth. Unbeknownst to them, he had good ears. Better than most gave him credit for.

" _Yes_ ," Leliana replied as quiet as she could.

"Maybe we all need each other," Samson replied dully, finally opening his eyes. He wanted to scold the one who was gossiping, though it was difficult to decipher whose voice referred to which face. His capturers were so brightly illuminated the fine detail in their features was lost to the flood of white light. In comparison, the green looked prettier. The dungeon had algi growing on the stone floor and walls from moisture. The other cells appeared empty.

Bewildered, he turned to his wrist, still held tightly by… the one named Cassandra.

_Oh, right. She is the one wrecking me._

Their silence indicated that perhaps his attuned hearing had startled them.

"Everyone who attended the Conclave is dead," she declared, with a vicious tug of his wrist, "except for you."

Samson paused, trying to think. He didn't think the Conclave was meant to a graveyard. Corypheus' plan was _better_ than that. Though if all had been on the invitee list were dead, did that mean his master's plot had failed? There'd be methods to find out the truth. One of his Red Templars would come get him.

He tried to smile. "Suppose I'm meant to feel special or something?"

"You are _supposed_ to explain!" Cassandra growled, bringing her free hand to a hilt of a sword, though Leliana raised a hand.

The two must be friends or family or something. They had equally horrible accents and also communicated without words.

"It is the meaning behind your hand we are interested in," Leliana said, sounding calmer, "Would you be so generous as to enlighten us?"

 _No_ , Samson thought, tearing his arm free. "Le' go!"

Slowly he raised himself to a seated position and stared at his green palm to block out the sounds. The green was like staring into Certainty, his beautiful red lyrium weapon. This mark… did Corypheus know about it? Maybe this meant he _was_ special. He could assist with his master's plan some more and be better than all the others.

Since Corypheus' ideologies at its core involved rejection of societal norms and he was already in trouble, he definitely wasn't going to share the details of how the Conclave was _meant_ to go.

"Yeah, well…" he tried to think of a suitable answer, "I was trying out some stuff… and at some point I asked the Maker to grant me the power of… greenness. It's a lovely color. I think we would be fools to not agree on that much. Better than grass, anyhow, or pines. Doesn't stink or give me an itchy nose. And maybe your Holy Maker listened to me."

"Liar!" Cassandra tore her sword out and pointed it square between Samson's eyes, "You utter another syllable of bullshit and I swear on Andraste to show you the true meaning of it!"

"Cassandra!" Leliana scolded, pulling on her friends arm, "Loathe him but do not _kill_ him."

"I am allowed to _want_ to kill him," Cassandra rephrased.

 _This…_ Samson's thoughts were starting to quicken _, is a fucking stress heap. Where's Certainty?_

Perhaps too late, he brought his glowing green hand to his side. He should have realized when he woke. His sword was gone. What had they done with it?

No wonder his brain was being sludge. Even if he couldn't drink red lyrium whenever he pleased, he always had the song near him, a call to rally him to arms. Now there was no inspiration, no thought or logic or reason. Just a green hand!

The Red Templar General raised his wrist. "You want the green? Chop it. I don't care."

Before Cassandra could snarl a response, Leliana said, "Not yet. Do you remember the Conclave?"

The Conclave, peace talks in attempt to allay conflicts between mages and Templars, had been the most politically significant event to occur in the past few years. However, his role in it was too much to think about right now. Samson shrugged. "Do you know where my sword is?"

"No," Cassandra kept her blade raised, though nodded to Leliana, "If you cannot remember the Conclave, perhaps we can _remind_ you."

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable from the lack of red, Leliana helped him to his feet, while his boots almost slipped on the condensation. It was nice to look down on someone, and Leliana was comparatively short to him. Such a minor detail of height shouldn't matter, though when he had no red, he felt very small and useless. Anything that could make him feel worthwhile was a benefit.

Clenching his jaw, Samson followed Leliana and Cassandra out of the prison doors, squinting from the light. A thick blanket of snow covered the landscape, with fog and peaks in the distance. They must be still in the Frostback Mountains somewhere, and by the Archdemon it was cold. Voices and marching were audible from behind a pair of large wooden doors. Was this the headquarters of his enemies?

He peered down. He was wearing his old Templar armour from the Gallows, silver with the symbol of a sword engraved on the chest piece. Maddox hadn't finished his improved one yet… shit, how could he think without his red? It wasn't fair that these ladies being so cross when he represented their precious chapel.

His eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, and it all started to look what he considered normal- bleak and mildly foggy around the edges.

From in front Cassandra pointed sternly up at the sky with her sword. From here it was easier to make sense of her features. If he had to guess, she was around his age, with olive skin, sharp eyes and jet-black pixie-like hair. A symbol of a sun was on her armour, indicating her rank. This wench was a fucking Seeker, and not the Order of Fiery Promise. She was part of the 'Mess with me and you die' Promise. From spite, Samson wanted to ignore her instruction.

 _Fucking Seekers…_ he cursed internally _, though she looks nice with the scar on 'er face._

Reluctantly, he followed the tip of the Seeker's sword. What he saw was more mesmerizing than the Chantry explosion three years ago. Within the smoky sky was a whirlpool of green as vibrant and horrid as the gash on his hand, miles in length and width. His eyes lit up in wonder. Was this the Elder One's doing? It looked bloody amazing. Reminding himself to maintain a fixture of emotionless, he walked closer to Cassandra with Leliana.

"See?" Samson shoved his thumb to the Heavens, like he was a painter trying to measure the distance between one flicker of lightning to another, "The Maker thought green was a fine change. He wants to make big pretty clouds next, just wait and see. I'll find coin to pay you if I'm right."

Cassandra took a moment to observe the marvel in more detail. "And then I suppose the grass will turn blue?"

She did not sound amused.

"Probably." Samson shrugged.

Leliana and Cassandra caught eyes and began fussing like he had suddenly transformed into a tree.

"Are you not seeing this? He is an imbecile."

"Yes," Leliana agreed, "Though there are still chances to turn it around."

"Turn him around and return him to the cell!"

"I know you do not like it, and neither does it please me, but we _need_ him, Cassandra."

 _Brilliant,_ Samson thought, filled with triumph. _They think I'm worse than garbage._

So that was the role he would play. Others saw it as an insult. He was so used to the insult he decided to stop getting mad and revel in it. The Red Templar General took a breath and forced the tactile memory of anxiety on his face.

"The thought of prison is downright horrifying," he said, glancing from one angry face to the other, "I know what you mean. I'm only a little scared by you ladies. I know those faces. I need a lotta help, don't I? I have lots of emotional problems. Would you be so lovely as to help me? I can be nice in exchange, extra nice."

This was mostly a lie, but it seemed to do the trick.

Cassandra let out the sort of sound one made when discovering there was a pile of paperwork up to the ceiling to fill out before retiring home. "I… do not speak to me anymore."

She marched toward the wooden doors, placing her sword back to her hip. Samson turned to Leliana.

"It's Raleigh," he said. He hated the form of address, but if anyone had heard of him, they would not recognize him by this name, "Thank you for walking me out here. It's a hard job. People don't give nice lasses enough credit for using their legs. You have some strong ones; it'll help with the mountains. We can't have weaklings climbing the scary foothills."

Leliana also had the Seeker signet on her, though her features were younger, softer with eyes that might melt the hearts of more gullible men. She began to trek through the snow. "I will pray you do not flatter me ever again."

Samson followed her and said, "I'll keep it in mind."

Cassandra yelled forth some instructions and the wooden doors opened. The valley, she said. Odd.

"What valley?" Samson muttered to Leliana, "Where are we headed?"

The young lady sighed as they crossed the bridge. "We intend to test your mark, to see if it can close rifts. Like the Breach. That is what we are calling the tear in the sky. It comes from the Fade, or it is as we understand it. There are many smaller rifts which might be easier to contain."

'Ah yeah?" Samson tried to sound interested, but he was wondering where they were getting their information from. For a duo of Seekers that were relying on him, they seemed to have it remarkably under control, "and why is the green so nasty?"

He glanced around to try determining what he was up against. It was only a bunch of blokes and ladies, harmless folk. He could take 'em.

Leliana nodded appreciatively to some around her. "It is larger and there are demons appearing wherever they are. It is not what Thedas needs. Something you should know."

 _I know what Thedas needs,_ Samson thought, a flicker of worry that they could read his mind nagged him. Damn, he needed the red right now. Paranoia was not his favourite symptom.

"You're addicted to lyrium, Templar?" Cassandra called from in front of him.

_Stop it, they can't read your head. They can't read it. No one can._

Samson fought to not react. "What of it?"

"I wondered." The Seeker kicked some snow. "It explains why you lack the wisdom to say and do what is right."

 _I know better than you,_ Samson criticized, "Is that what you think?"

"Yes," Cassandra replied stiffly.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Samson said loudly.

A pause crossed them like dust of snow where only the chill air numbed his ears. The answer was muffled, though the word indistinguishable.

"No."

 _CHANTRY WORSHIPPING BITCH,_ he thought, and he kicked the snow.

* * *

What a big surprise. They found more snow. Samson wondered if the valley was supposed to be a metaphor for a sanctified field of Chantry worshippers, but it could have been the blob of green hovering above a sheet of ice, or the demons pouring out of it.

The Gallows never had demon displays like that. Incredible! Four approached them.

Cassandra took out her weapon. "Stand behind me."

He watched disheartened as the Seeker bitch ran forth to attack.

 _Piss on it, she can't do that on her own,_ Samson thought, suddenly filled with a drive for teamwork out of sheer habit. He stepped forward. "You won't manage! You want to take back what you said before?"

Leliana's eyes narrowed. "I shudder to think of how I can agree with you." She dashed to the side and Samson heard the wondrous clang of metal.

Filled with a boyish excitement, he spun around to see a regular, cheap sword in her hands- silver, the ones ordinary folk used. She held it out. "I think we share a common goal."

Looking from the weapon to Leliana's eyes, he snatched it. "Maybe it won't be the last you hear of it."

The sword wasn't Certainty. It didn't sing. It was a piece of crap, but he was going to prove that Seeker bitch wrong. She needed his help. As his most recent memories in the Gallows crossed his mind, like helping to fight a Red Lyrium crazed Meredith, he felt an inkling of a spark, to be part of something great. The green of his hand reflected off the sword, which is what Cassandra saw first. He watched her concentration turn into disapproval _and_ focus as she spotted him. Overcome with the adrenaline, he swung at a demon, and enjoyed watching the muddy consistency of blood splatter on the sheet of ice beneath them.

She waited until it was dead before shouting. "Where did you find that weapon?"

Cassandra head for the demon to the right, while Samson covered her as another one followed them. She was such a reckless soul. She needed his talent.

"I dunno," he admitted, slicing an arm off a shriek, "Maybe the prophet gave her to me."

Sickly green and black blood soaked the snow.

"URG!" Cassandra scoffed, purging her anger into her technique. After these two, only one demon would be left.

Samson smiled involuntarily at the rush. "You Seekers don't like it when you need the help of a Templar, right?"

"Shut up!"

He heard a bang as the demon hit her shield.

Leliana's voice was audible in the distance. "Forgive me, Cassandra! It was… unavoidable."

A demon dug its claws into the back of Samson's shoulder, and with a grunt he hit the demon back harder. "You're intimidated by me?"

Simultaneous screeches echoed through the otherwise barren landscape, as the Seeker and Templar sliced their respective demons down.

"No," she said shortly, "Lyrium addicts are dangers to themselves."

Her eyes were fixed on the one demon left, a strange misty ghost against the frost. She prepared her stance to attack.

"I bet they are," he retorted, doing the same, "just like stuck up Seekers are perils to themselves."

Why alcohol had this demon been drinking? Its direction and balance was off. Either way, it was getting close.

There was no logic to the strike. There was no rally to arms, no reason for them to coexist or collaborate, though in their shared disdain and skill the two struck the demon in perfect symmetry. Samson aimed for the left waistline and Cassandra for the right shoulder. The blood that spurted from it was like a shower of riches. The monster fell to a disgusting mess in the white, a spider-like tangle of limbs and brownish gunk. As silence fell over the mountains, except for their heavy breaths, Samson missed his Red Templars. These Seekers were no substitute for a real army.

He placed his sword behind him, where it was always positioned on this armour. There was one job left to do. What had Leliana said?

He'd close this bloody rift. He'd make it close.

Not caring or knowing how this was supposed to happen, he raised his palm to the green fissure and pretended he was using a paralysing spell with the red.

With a burst of crimson sparks, the current jumped from one wrist to the other like a torrent, combining onto his palm, which let out a blinding flash of white, only to bind together as a rope in front of him. Life ceased to be colour or perception, not even voices or songs. There was just this empty light. Samson wondered if he'd killed himself by accident until the green from the sky vanished entirely and the frost of the valley returned. The rift, or whatever it was, had vanished.

_By the Black city, how did I do that?_

Cassandra's mouth was agape, eyes still filled of distrust. "What did you do?"

Great minds thought alike, though Samson would never compliment the Seeker.

As stunned as she was by the success, he crossed his arms. Hopefully they hadn't seen the red. They wouldn't be able to figure out that he consumed red lyrium.

The man paused. He had to make something up quick. He could either pretend to be really stupid or especially smart. Wiping some specs of blood from his armor and brushing snowflakes from the end of his nose with a finger, he opened a palm like a merchant presenting his most prized ware.

"What does it look like I did?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

Cassandra looked angry. "That is not what I meant!"

Samson gently blew some more snow from his knuckles, "Oh. Sorry." He crossed his arms again, hoping the apology sounded sincere but it probably didn't, "Guess… the Maker thought I was more important than you."

 _Yeah,_ he kept completely straight faced; _you know who you're dealing with Seeker. Give up._

The Seeker dug one of her boots so deep into the snow he thought the ice would break. "Keep… your weapon…" she seethed.

"Cassandra!" Leliana shouted, hurrying over to them, "Leave your bickering for our travels. The soldiers are waiting for us at the forward camp."

Samson grinned. They had soldiers!

* * *

Cassandra and Leliana's forces weren't impressive. The Red Templar General did not care for them. He did enjoy fighting the other wave of demons though, with a similar rift hanging over them like the one at the frozen river. Once the combat finished, Samson closed the green fissure as he had done before, though taking care to use a different Templar enchantment that did not spark as much red. It still caught the attention of an elf though. Not just any pointed ear, but a mage! He was bald with loose fitting robes.

Samson grinned. He liked meeting mages…

"I see you have already grasped the magnitude of your abilities," the apostate said calmly, "It is a relief you have learned it so quickly, though I suspect it comes with being a Templar?"

"Lyrium addict," Cassandra corrected through gritted teeth.

These ladies were going to take a while to warm to him.

"As I understand it, you do not possess the qualities of any Templar," the mage said, though Samson turned to look at the bald man too quickly. The elf's mouth was not moving, though his voice was perfectly audible.

 _Shit,_ Samson thought. This was either a hallucination or real. He liked meeting mages except this one. No one was supposed to know his identity, _You making me paranoid?_

 _You are not paranoid at this moment, only incredibly gifted with seeing into the lands of the dreaming,_ the mage's voice echoed in his brain like spoken words, "Whatever put that Breach in the sky also put that mark on your hand. I theorized that the mark might be able to close the rifts that have woken upon the Breach's wake, and it seems I was correct."

"Mm, maybe," Samson mumbled, adding in his head, _I would not trust you if you were a spider I could crush._

 _The feeling of distrust is reciprocated,_ the mage answered.

"Chuckles, you mean you're not even going to introduce yourself?" a very familiar voice filled Samson's ears, "It isn't the first words out of your mouth for once?"

Turning around, he spotted a dwarf with a large crossbow in his hands, dirty blond hair and chunky, golden earings. Samson thought he had seen the dwarf before but couldn't pinpoint where.

"It will be the fifth, thank you Varric," the elf said. With a serene expression and a small smile, he turned to Samson, "A pleasure to meet you. My name is Solas."

"Raleigh," Samson responded, though added _, I don't like you._

The apostate glanced at him from the corner of his eye. _The dislike is communal, though do not allow fear to stun you. I will not inform our allies what you really are._

Unnerved, but not wanting to pursue the conversation further (if it was real in the first place), Samson skulked away from all the acquaintances, even Varric – who seemed to at least have a sense of humour.

* * *

They traveled to the next lot of soldiers, apparently the more important group a bit further along the path, unable to tell if he was paranoid, insane, brilliant, or all three. The conversation that followed did little to inspire him. Neither did the fighting very much. The rift closing also lacked impact. The true surprise of the day came when the former Knight Captain of Kirkwall Gallows came strolling over the horizon like the show off he was. The Red Templar General wanted to run up to the blond and sabotage his too-perfect face and break his too-straight teeth. His dress sense seemed to have become more extravagant since the last time they'd seen each other. The Templar armour appeared completely abandoned. Cullen had a new set, and a cloak with a red fluffy something across the shoulders. The combination was nothing short of egregious.

" _You_?" Cullen's face contorted in anger. He climbed down from the slope, staring. The former Knight Captain turned to Cassandra, "Are you mad? Do you realize who this is? The man standing alongside you?"

No amount of red lyrium could warp Samson's appearance so much to make a person not recognize him, it seemed.

 _Prick_ _\- always the same condescending, rigid attitude._

Even if his former roommate did not know about the Red Templars and he had an advantage, Samson clenched his hands into fists. "Yeah, I'm sure they'd appreciate you keeping me away from the rifts, Cullen. They'll line out of your office to say their thank yous. When the world is a shell of its former self, they'll say, 'Hmm, you know, I think it was that Rutherford's fault'."

"Shut up!" Cullen retorted, his voice almost breaking.

Cassandra looked from the former Knight Captain to Samson. "Do you know each other?"

"Once upon a time," Samson growled.

"I do not know him, no," Cullen said stiffly. "Former Gallows Templar, yes, though not of any Order we follow."

 _That's right,_ Samson bickered internally, _because your Order represents this world's failures._

"He _is_ a moron," Cassandra admitted, now that the situation was becoming clearer.

"I appreciate the support, Cassandra." Cullen said, bitterly.

"But Commander," Leliana chimed in, "He has been helping us."

"That is what you think," Cullen said smoothly, turning on Samson. The Red Templar General was faced with an expression that neither acknowledged the past nor forgot about it, "I doubt they're right about you. Power to close rifts or not, we sacrificed a lot of men to get you here. I worry now it was for nothing."

Again with the insults. Samson sighed. His old friend could have done so much better with himself. "That's too bad, _Commander_."

Cullen rolled his eyes. "We are wasting time. The path to the Temple is clear. If you can close that rift, perhaps I will consider the idea of you joining our cause, but the arrangement will not be taken lightly. Maker, why am I still talking to you? Move out."

Samson watched while Cassandra and Leliana rushed forward with a number of soldiers behind them. Cullen merely paced forward to help a wounded soldier to walk. The Red Templar General watched it sadly, even as the mark on his hand glowed.

"Some fantastic welcoming committee you are," he said, "You help your fellow soldiers but you don't want to help me."

" _Samson_." Cullen's thoughts were disjointed, apparent by the multitude of emotions jumbled in the word, though Samson walked in front of him. "Let's not go over this again, please. We have a job to do."

"We do," he acknowledged, and he strode past the Inquisition's Commander up to the wreckage of the Temple, "and maybe mine is also more important than yours."

Cullen's voice was almost lost in the background chaos. "Maker watch over you… for all our sakes…"

Only one major rift remained to be closed for now. Samson climbed over a stack of bricks, earth and didn't hear the end of Cullen's sentence.

"…but especially yours."


	2. Haven I

In an absence of images, Samson continued to experience when asleep. When he didn't dream, he had the grievous sensation of being heaved into an endless pit, or perhaps hauled from the vacuum of space itself, the very fabric of his mind tugging at his skin and his blood. The entirety of reality warped.

He had visions of his very existence becoming nullified. The encapsulation of being nothing often woke him to a cold sweat. Compared to that, seeing the end of the world was like taking a breath of air after being chained to the bottom of the Aramanthine Ocean, seconds from death.

The nightmares were common and they varied in theme. A lot of the times, he was in a city he couldn't recognize, observing people he had never met. At others, he watched blurred figures in the Gallows, some joking and laughing. Maddox was usually around too, though he wasn't always Tranquil. There were letters, ones that he gave to Maddox, some that Samson carried with him, ones that he had no idea of their contents. He had a vague sensation that they were important. Then he witnessed Corypheus' plan, a salvation, a true freedom for Thedas.

Calling these dreams was a grave misjudgement. They were night terrors, frightening because there was something _too_ real about them. And yet, like all hallucinations, the truth of the matter was sometimes harsher. No matter how real they seemed, it wasn't.

From a pain in his hand and a green glow behind his eyelids, he woke with a start.

 _What is it, Sumerday?_ he wondered, disorientated.

"Turner, I am so grateful you were right. Thank you for informing me that…" a man's voice faltered, a familiar one, "never mind. Just leave. I think that would be best."

_Whose voice is that?_

"Thank you, Commander Rutherford."

_Whose midget voice is THAT?_

"Cullen…?" Samson groaned, though the word came out more like he was trying to choke himself with the pillow. Wait, since when did he have a pillow? As he stretched out his toes and felt his leg cramp, he heard the tapping of feet and a door close. Right. He was in a bed, somehow.

He forced his eyes open and examined the room. It was a small wooden cottage, hardly ten meters across each way, pleasantly lit by a number of candles. There was a desk to one side, and a… _Cullen_ in front of him….

"I… have mixed feelings on the fact you are alive," Cullen said slowly, pacing closer to the bed, "though be grateful I wasn't watching you the entire time you were recovering. I think that would have been too much for the both of us. Maybe your addled brain would have decided to let you go. I can't say I would blame it, given your various torments over the years."

Samson blinked very hard three times. There was no mistaking it. He was now under the care of his previous roommate.

"What…" his voice sounded like death, so he tried again, "What happened?"

Cullen stood over Samson from the side of the bed. This seemed oddly familiar, though Samson blamed it on the after effects of his dream.

The blond sighed. "I see."

The words were simple, _too_ plain.

"What?" Samson grumbled, squinting to look up at his old roommate, "You see what? Me? I see you too. Big surprise, _Commander_! Or maybe you thought me blinded?"

Cullen chuckled and shook his head at the wall. It was a dismissive gesture, how someone did to a relative they hated so much one was pleased to learn they'd experienced a great misfortune. "Cassandra thought I was the best person to speak to you, considering our history – if that is even what you want to call it. But don't think of me as stupid. I strongly disagreed with that idea. I think that is, in some ways, more reason to stay away."

Samson didn't answer. He didn't like the thought of speaking to Cullen or the Seeker bitch. Neither was more worthy of talking to than the other.

Now that Cullen was closer Samson felt a hint of jealousy.

It was a cruel fate that the two men were the same age but Cullen had somehow gotten _better_ looking over time. A cruel joke, it was. Probably because he wasn't withdrawing from lyrium and had a sheltered, largely stress free existence, the privileged bastard!

"Seekers…" Samson shook his head and hit one of Cullen's knees to see if it would hurt, an expression of his envy.

The man didn't respond. "Do I need to drag you to the Chantry so Chancellor Roderick can find the means to end your pettiness instead?" he growled, stepping away from Samson, "I'm sure you'd appreciate the introduction. He only claims to represent the Chantry, when no one does right now given Divine Justinia is dead. He is making everybody angry! On the assumption you still despise everything the Order stands for... well! I daresay you will undoubtedly find more reason to - a crying shame since we need as many allies as possible."

Samson covered his glowing hand under the bed covers and tried to make himself more comfortable. As much of a twat this Chancellor bloke was, and how Cullen was partially agreeing with Samson, there was another detail that was more intriguing. "When did the Divine fall off the twig?"

Cullen looked flabbergasted. "You mean Cassandra or Leliana didn't tell you? Maker, did they inform you of _anything_ of consequence to the Inquisition?"

"Nah, nothing," Samson said, a smile crossing his features. Reluctantly, he thought he probably shouldn't lie, "Nothing useful anyway."

Cullen grumbled and paced a few steps forward and back. "The Conclave! Did they tell you nothing about it?"

"That everyone's guts went flying in fire," Samson replied, and then he realized what this meant, "Oh right, that would mean the Divine too, wouldn't it?"

"Yes!" the Commander sighed exasperated. He leaned against the wall. "There is so much to tell you. Though first I must verify… you truly do not know what happened in the Conclave? This is of utmost importance. If you lie I swear it, I will lock you in here for a week."

Being apprehended in here for a week didn't sound so horrid.

"No," Samson said, _though Corypheus was going to wreck it,_ "I don't even remember how I got here."

The last memory he had was approaching the Temple of Sacred ashes after meeting Cullen.

The Commander went silent for a few moments. He rubbed his temples, breathing deeply to settle down. "Of course. Of course not." he peered at the door, and then started speaking more to himself, his voice softening with every word, "your memory is truly as atrocious as what they've said. Is it truly all from the lyrium? How could… Maker, never mind."

Who didn't have a bad memory sometimes? The insinuation wasn't what bothered Samson. As comfy as the bed was, and at least he didn't have to speak to Cassandra, a detail concerned him. Cullen implied he knew something about Samson. How would _he_ know about how bad Samson's memory was? It sounded like he'd gotten information off somebody… possibly a mutual friend of theirs, though Samson couldn't think of any.

"Who's ' _they'_?" Samson wondered. His voice was calmer than he had felt since waking.

Cullen and Samson met eyes for a long moment. There was trepidation in Cullen's brown iris, secrets hidden behind shadows so thick they were like walls.

"Do not let that concern you," he answered, softly. Before Samson could finish, or even start thinking about how to reply Cullen added, "There are more pressing matters that require our immediate attention."

The Commander explained that Samson had successfully helped defeat a Pride Demon – ' _not_ on your own, with help' – and closed the big rift above the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The experience, and some explosions, had drained a lot of his energy and he'd been largely unconscious the past few days.

"The event has caused quite the riot within Haven," Cullen said, almost sounding amused, "But there is a problem. The villagers have decided to call you by an ambitious title, erhm…. though I am extremely worried of what it might do to your already bloated ego."

_Egos… pah, like Cullen can talk._

Samson put on his sweetest, innocent smile and a voice like jagged glass, a smooth appearance that could cut. "Is my ego so excessive compared to yours, sweet Commander?"

Cullen's cheeks went rosy in humiliation and disagreement. "I… if you are so curious to know which one of us is overconfident, I assure you we will soon find out!"

He looked angry, nasty and everything that Meredith adored. Scum.

"You're challenging me, snobbish Knight Captain?" Samson growled.

Even if he was lying in a bed, he felt like he was standing opposite Cullen and staring him down. Perhaps it was the reference to the Gallows, or the fact that Samson had said exactly the right thing that made the anger boil.

Cullen had gotten too emotional to reply calmly. "Maker's breath - Maybe I am, Samson! If that is what it will take to put you in your place!"

Who knew what a challenge of this nature would entail or mean, though it made intuitive sense in their nonsensical, passionate row.

Samson tried to climb out of the bed, but his muscles felt weak. He poked one foot out from the sheets, his nails necrotic in the corners. "How do you intend to put me in my place?" he snarled. "You think I'm so childish?"

"I do, absolutely. Without a doubt." Cullen attested shortly. Samson languidly brought himself closer to the edge of the bed while the rambling continued, "Yes, you are a grown man. I shouldn't _have_ to keep an eye on you like a –Andraste guide you – baby sitter, though I will. That is the task I have been given for the moment. That is what has been asked of me, so I will do it. That is what the Inquisition needs. That is my duty." The rant became faster and angrier, "It is a terrible job. I wish I could lock you in here. I hate the fact out of everybody in the Conclave, you survived. You - of all the bloody _better_ people in Thedas. Out of some of the greatest minds, we were given the worst."

"You'll need to try harder to insult me," Samson growled, and he planted both his feet on the floorboards, "I think it's going to make you sob like a baby before I do. You forget. I don't cry. I am above emotions. Because I'm not a fucking child!"

The argument ended with an angry noise from Cullen, and Samson was reminded, again, of how much wasted potential the Inquisition's Commander was. Cullen's rage was perfect for the Red Templars, or really any type of fighter besides a conventional Templar. Or a Seeker. Fucking Seekers.

Samson got to his feet, trying to find his balance and the two slowly recovered from whatever their argument was about.

From a distance, the sound of footsteps rumbled closer. A rapt knock came from the other side of the door.

"Can you take any longer?"

It was Cassandra, and she sounded frustrated, though it was nothing compared to the two men inside. How dare that Seeker interrupt them! They'd yell at each other for as long as they'd please!

"YES!" Samson screamed, but he was surprised to hear his voice echo.

Only… he tensed his jaw. It wasn't an echo. It was Cullen. They had bellowed at the door at the same time. Startled by the harmony of their outburst, the two glanced at each other. Shock, misunderstanding and even in synchronicity, discord, was painted on Cullen's face, and possibly his own.

Cassandra did not wait a moment longer. "Commander, get out and speak to me. _Now_."

The tone was harsh. Everybody was getting angry today!

Samson couldn't help it. He cackled. "Look who's gotten in trouble with the big, scary Seeker! It isn't me, it is you, _Commander_."

Cullen steeled his stance and his expression. In that instant, with the display of a perfectly focused mind, all anger vanished. A flat determination flashed when he met Samson's eyes, and part of Samson's rage also dwindled.

"Believe me, it is merely a business discussion," Cullen said calmly, "I've had a lot of those the past few years. You wouldn't know, of course, running off and being an utter invalid in Kirkwall streets. Though I stand by what I said… was it really five or six years ago? Oh, but I suppose you don't remember that either? That would be right. Samson. Forget it. Please. Continue to not care as I do."

The words didn't hurt. Nothing did anymore. Samson's emotions had been ripped from his soul and lazily stitched back together by something more real than the floorboards he was standing on. And as Cullen head toward the door the Red Templar General thought maybe Cullen was right. He couldn't really remember what Cullen had said. A blurry image lay in his heart, a sense that maybe something had been said, but not knowing what it was. He had a sense of déjà vu, though the feeling basically followed him around wherever he went. He knew that there were many fragments in his environment that reminded him of... other instances of deja vu, but there were no memories to enlighten him- nothing but brief glimpses into the Dreaming world, inescapable delusions that made him feel severed from himself.

As the door squeaked opened, the Red Templar stepped toward the exit and watched flickers of snowflakes brush onto Cullen's porcelain skin. The Commander's eyes were bright with the Maker's light. It wasn't normal. None of the Chantry worshippers looked like humans. He… he was the normal one.

"I have managed to escape Chancellor Roderick for now." Cassandra's terrible accent melded with the gust outside, but the wooden frame blocked her face from view, "Though we need to proceed with a discussion on how to arrange the Inquisition. He is still considered a suspect, which is hardly surprising. It is unimportant. Is there a reason… should I be concerned about your abhorrent screeching?"

Even when causing a scene, Samson kept his eyes on his former roommate, the Knight Captain who was practically Meredith's lackey.

Cullen frowned. "I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I lost my temper. It… I will need to get used to keeping my opinions to myself around… him. It has been a long while. I thought, hoped – rather ill-advisedly – there might be some improvement in his state of mind. It is irrelevant. Rest assured Cassandra, there will be no more _screeching_ from me."

Samson didn't feel insulted by not being acknowledged by name, nor that they were talking about him like he wasn't there. He was too busy looking at Rutherford's eyes. Some said the iris could give insight to the pattern of one's essence, and since Cullen was free of a heavy lyrium addiction, the colour in them was very vibrant.

"I understand it was not a deliberate expression of aggression," Cassandra said curtly. There was a pause. "Does he know? Does he know what they are calling him?"

Samson felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He had gotten so worked up trying to emasculate Cullen that he had forgotten that he had some sort of … _title_ now? By the lack of alarm in the two Inquisition member's faces, it wasn't "Red Templar General".

When one of Cullen's eyes flickered to Samson's, he discovered he couldn't recall of what they were fighting about. The concept of having an ego or a sense of self had never seemed further away, blown from him like the specs of ice on the feathers of Cullen's stupid armour.

This was a place where Samson didn't command an army or play a part in the world's rebirth. He stood in a cottage in Haven, being treated like nothing by someone he hated. All he could grasp were vague outlines of concepts like the ink that failed to form shapes because the pot was empty. He knew Cullen was a judgmental prick who made assumptions of others. There was little else.

"Not yet." Cullen's words were as wispy as the condensation exiting his lips, "I am, however, strongly considering blocking his ears. Maker knows he is already confused enough."

Confused… even if Cullen was wrong about literally everything else, maybe that was partially true.

 _You're nothing here,_ Samson told himself. _You can't act like you own the fucking place. These blockheads do._

He had to pretend to get along with them, for now, until he could return to his Red Templars and join Corypheus's side again. It was only a matter of time. Someone would come get him.

Samson approached the doorway to look at Cassandra. Trying to be pleasant, he nodded in acknowledgement of them. Cullen jumped, not expecting him to be there.

"I am listening, Commander," Samson said, dully.

The Red Templar General didn't smile as Cassandra flinched in confusion and said, "Samson… you have remarkable hearing."

Samson didn't smile as he placed his fingers into his ears. This blocked out all sound from any normal person, but not him. He couldn't hear the snow or the wind, nor the bicker of the crowd in the distance. Though the voices of those he wanted to hear, he heard every syllable perfectly, the dreams and the nightmares. He peered to Cullen and said. "Please… do your job and figure out how to keep score of our challenge?"

The Commander sighed. Maybe he was impressed that Samson was cooperating, though it wasn't enough. It hardly ever was.

Cullen raised an arm to his forehead and braced the snow. "I will consider it briefly."

He didn't sound like he wanted any reminder of their spat. He was done with Samson for now.

Cassandra turned on her heel and joined Cullen's side. Samson trailed behind. Even blocking out as much sound as he could, he still heard their conversation. The green in his hand, thankfully, was only sparking occasionally, tickling his ear.

"And yes," Cullen remarked to his colleague, "He _does_ have remarkable hearing."

As Samson tried not to glance at the many faces in the crowd as they walked onto pavement and away from snow, he thought... Cullen was wrong. Memory rubbish or mentally confused, there was one fact he was certain of.

He knew this déjà vu with Cullen was like all the others. It didn't mean anything and it wasn't important because it wasn't real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave into writing another chapter of this. It is too much fun. Please rate and review. This story follows details from my other Samson fic "Samson's Shield of Shame". There will be an insane number of spoilers later on, so be warned.
> 
> I would like to recommend AK Browns Adaar/Bull fanfic "A Letter Home". It is to date the only story with that pairing I have managed to read. Her OCs are incredible, I made a reference to her "Turner" in this chapter.
> 
> Thank you to Anla'Shock for reading and encouraging me to tweak the punctuation and edit this a tad.


	3. Haven II

The Haven Chantry had, to give the chapel some credit, a pleasant ambience. The stone walls and glow of candle light was refreshing. There were no gold statues or red rugs adorned the interior, only the natural chill of brick, the dark wooden tables and bookshelves that blended together. Perhaps Samson didn't mind this one because he had not experienced anything upsetting to distort his opinion.

The echo of their footsteps was unnervingly loud. Various villagers and sisters muttered from other parts of the room or stepped past, as audible as they'd been right next to him.

"That is him? I see, I see."

"We must decide what to do about the bookshelf downstairs."

"Excuse me, sister, I have some rations. I was told to come here to figure out what to do with them."

Mid way down the hall, Cullen motioned to Samson to unblock his ears, but given the Red Templar General had heard Cullen, he was quick to comply.

'Samson!" he started, peering down, "I can't believe… how did….do you need a blanket?"

"Oh, yeah." Samson realized he had neglected to put on boots before strolling outside. He had not thought much of the cold, so neither had he been tempted to backtrack and get them. It wasn't frostbitten, anyhow. He stopped and curled his toes. His feet had gone slightly purple, and he couldn't feel them. No pain was there to distract him.

The Commander appeared slightly worried. "You will not leave this Chantry until I find you some warmer clothes."

"From _where_ , Cullen?" Samson demanded, still in the plain shirt and pants he'd woken up in.

Before Cullen could answer, a gruff voice wafted through the air like a foul odor.

"The Herald of Andraste."

Samson turned, faced with an elderly man with white smock leaning against a pillar. He had seen Leliana argue with him temporarily on the mountain, but hadn't paid him much attention. No doubt, this grandpa was the reason people dreaded growing old, because of the fear of becoming bitter and losing the upkeep to pluck one's eyebrows.

Cullen and Cassandra sighed annoyed from in front of Samson.

"Has no thought for discretion…" Cullen hissed to Cassandra.

"I know," she consoled.

 _Whore stasher,_ Samson wanted to say, but settled with, "Good morning."

"It is the afternoon," Cassandra advised him, and she took two big strides to Chancellor Roderick, "I advised you not to address Samson so thoughtlessly. He is yet unable to follow what has happened with even judgement."

"And what use do you have for a heretic so dim witted?" the Chancellor noted, glancing at Samson, "The prisoner will be spoken to however I deem appropriate, Seeker, and I still fail to see what purpose he may have besides to further corrupt and stagger the general public."

"It is simple, Chancellor." Cassandra rolled the words through her teeth, "Providence. I do not understand the Maker's reasoning, but I am certain the Maker has a plan, a meaningful one, like He does for all of us. Samson would not be here if there was somebody better for the task."

Samson stared. The last he'd been conscious Cassandra said she wanted to kill him. This was a bizarre change. Perhaps it was a machination, or just maybe three days was the magic number. Cullen gave a half shrug. One of his ankles was turned out, a sure sign of impatience. The Red Templar was capable of reading signs, and this moment of cohesion was a big one. Right now, nobody liked this moron. They had a common goal- to get rid of him.

"Is there a good reason for interrupting us, Chancellor Roderick, or are we dirtying the floor?" Cullen said. The words were polite, but the tone and posture resounded 'go away.'

"The answer is _no_ , Commander," Cassandra answered before Roderick could, "As I have requested already, and I do so for the last time, leave _us_."

The Chancellor gave the smallest flinch, like recoiling from a fly landing on his nose. Something else needed to be said. Samson had to admit these Chantry worshippers were far better than the Chancellor was, so he'd try help. He thought of a comeback.

"It's a good idea to listen to Seekers," Samson advised him, "Worse than snakes or dragons. If you provoke one, they can kill you just by looking at you."

For a brief second, Cassandra glanced in Samson's direction and appeared mildly startled, though not quite pleasantly.

The Chancellor glared at Samson. "Your mark could, as far as I can see, do the same." he stepped forward, "How does an execution in Val Royeaux sound to you, criminal?"

"That is not your choice to make!" Cassandra retorted.

"It will be mine, and other authorities of the Chantry, Seeker," Roderick said, spitefully.

Cullen sighed, but said, "Answer him, Samson."

Samson's mouth formed a grim, inexpressive line. He had been given death threats a countless number of times. The chances of an attack succeeding were small, and he certainly wasn't too fussed about life either in this state. He knew what to say to undermine this Chantry worshipper's rubbish attitude.

"Execution sounds okay," he replied, plainly.

For a brief second, he thought Cassandra tried to hide a tiny smile. Roderick didn't look like he expected the nonchalant answer, for his eyes flashed, tempestuous.

"Then perhaps the Inquisition will die out quicker than expected," he denoted smoothly. He left, "I am certain I will see you in Val Royeaux for a trial, criminal."

 _Not likely,_ Samson replied in his head, thinking that Orlais was one of the worst places he could go, worse than here.

Cullen was stumped. "That – was mildly impressive."

Samson ignored the Commander, careworn of criticism and conflict. He waddled up to the Nevarran, desiring to know the motivations for her defending him.

"Not feeling too cold are you, Seeker?" he inquired.

"It is _Cassandra_ , for you," she said, placing her hands on her hips, "You are the madman without boots. Why would I be cold?"

"I heard extremes in weather can make particulars delusional," Samson explained, "I'm looking out for your safety, lady. I can't think of why else you'd defend me to that-"

"Zealot not to be trusted," Cullen interrupted, quickly finishing the sentence for him.

Samson felt an inkling of gratefulness for the comment, for once, even as Cullen's gaze was fixed somewhere else.

Cassandra sighed and looked to Cullen, who nodded slowly. Her voice was a lot calmer when she replied. "Try as I may, I cannot pretend you, however maddening, were not exactly what we needed when we needed it."

"The Breach is still a threat to us all," Cullen affirmed, "And Solas is under the impression it may close at another time if the mark is given an opportunity to become more powerful. Consider yourself lucky for that account."

"Power?" Samson repeated, thinking it all sounded too good to be true. Red Templar powers and this green thing might be able to do more than one alone. Maybe it had greater power than closing rifts, like wrecking this Chantry!

Or maybe just the little cottage Roderick lived in.

"Do not get ideas," Cassandra advised him, side by side with Cullen, "It is vexing. The moment you unblock your ears you discover the title that the villagers are calling you, even when you followed what we asked."

Samson didn't answer, unable to recall.

"The Herald of Andraste?" she encouraged.

"Was that it?" Samson, bewildered, looked behind him to where the door had recently closed. A fresh scatter of snowflakes was resting at the exit. He had not made the connection at the time, too taken aback by the interrupter. "Why Andraste?"

"The villagers saw what you did to the Breach, and they talk about the woman you saw in the Fade before coming here, the visions you witnessed at the Temple of Sacred Ashes," the Seeker explained, "That is who they believe it was."

"And you bare your teeth at me for making up stories, Cassandra," Samson said smoothly, with a smile. Since he couldn't remember much about the last rift he closed, or even how he'd been spat out of the Conclave at all, it sounded like a whole lot of rubbish, "They're being presumptuous. It could have been my mother's ghost. It could have been a whore."

"Let's throw Meredith onto that list while we're at it," Cullen added.

"Yeah," Samson said, bewildered they were agreeing with each other.

The Commander had his arms crossed, still staring at somewhere in the distance, but he didn't look angry. Was he trying to move the conversation along, or attempting humour?

"Come," Cassandra said, gesturing a hand. They walked until they reached a door at the end of the hall and entered. It was a pretty room, with the same stone walls, though smaller and a large table in the middle. A bloody great book was in the middle of it. There were also two women already in there. Leliana was to the left, peering at her nails, and a bronze skinned woman around the same age with a clipboard in her arms on the right. She had a silky golden blouse and the lack of religious association on her clothes won instant approval from Samson.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Cullen said solemnly, "The Chancellor decided to stick his ugly nose in, hopefully for the last time today. Before we begin, there are two here who need to be introduced." He nodded to the woman with the clipboard. "Samson, this is Lady Josephine Montiliyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat. Josephine, this is the one we have been talking about."

 _Could you have made me sound any worse?_ he thought.

It wasn't obvious if Josephine was afraid of Samson or intrigued. She gave a coy smile, which Samson had to admit was adorable, possibly the cutest thing he'd seen in a while.

" _All things in this world are finite. What one man gains, another has lost_." Josephine recited with unmatched eloquence.

"Huh?" Samson said. The endearing Antivan accent had thrown him off, but he also didn't have the heart to add, _What does that mean?_

"I didn't mean…." Josephine tapped her boots twice, going a little darker in the cheeks. Even from the sound, it was evident the shoes were expensive. "My apologies, Ser Samson. It is an excerpt from _Transfigurations_. Cullen told me you have an immense disliking for the Holy Text, so I selected a passage which interpretations were more ambiguous."

Samson smiled. That was unexpectedly, incredibly thoughtful. He brought a palm to his chest and gave a respectful lower of his head. "That's very kind of you, Lady Josephine."

Cullen looked like he was trying to decide if he wanted strong or weak coffee, until he spoke. "I think that is quite enough of that, Samson." He raised a finger. "Stand over there – _away_ from the Ambassador, before you embarrass yourself."

"Excuse me." Samson moved two steps in the direction Cullen was indicating, but stopped. "I don't think it is fair you are allowed to verbally assault me, taking into consideration how supposedly _delicate_ my self-image is. I was only being nice."

The Commander rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure you were."

"I was."

He really was.

"I saw it as no trouble, Commander," Leliana said swiftly, eyeing Samson nosily. "If he was trying to flatter her, believe me, it would be far more obvious and repulsive."

"Yes. She speaks from experience, as unbelievable as it may sound," Josephine added, her skin tone returning to normal, "And I also thought it surprising. Though not… in a troublesome way."

The Ambassador averted her eyes.

Cullen screwed up his face and was likely seconds away from saying something dreadful back when…

"It is increasingly obvious to me." Cassandra said, scrutinizing both men. "That the two of you are likewise rash and childish."

"Please, the Commander is more so," Leliana joked, which made Samson smile.

"Perhaps you can make amends?" Josephine suggested, tentatively looking at Samson. "For example – what is a well-known custom? - shake hands and aim to be more sensible and courteous while you are liaising with us."

"Leave your quarrels for the tavern," Cassandra agreed, "where you will attract slightly less attention, or else be forcefully removed."

Cullen frowned and looked to Samson. "I hate that you're not joking. Would you _all_ like us to shake hands?"

"If that is what is required," Leliana tittered, appearing very amused by this entire exchange.

Samson, as though his palm had suddenly exploded into green light, pelted his right hand forward at lightning speed. He was going to beat Cullen at this competition. He could prove he was more capable of keeping his ego under control. It started with a hand shake, which he had already successfully offered.

"I win, Commander," he said, trying not to grin too much.

Cullen looked down at his hand and stepped forward. "Don't be so stupid. You win nothing."

"I disagree," Cassandra said, regarding them like snakes. "He earns some respect from me."

"And me!" Leliana chortled.

"The Herald clearly is not as impetuous as you make him out to be," Cassandra finished, referring to Cullen.

Josephine merely tapped her quill on the clipboard.

Cullen shook his head and extended his right hand, avoiding Samson's eye like it was the next Blight. "You do not know him as I do," he seethed.

Wrong.

"You don't know me at all," Samson countered. Cullen stared wide eyed, but Samson was the one who grasped onto Cullen's hand firmly. Cullen's was weaker, though not feeble. Despite looking well presented, the Commander's hand felt slimy. Samson thought it filthy, like pulling a snail from its shell with his fingers, but he didn't flinch. Even snails deserved pretend respect.

"Thank you for agreeing to cooperate with me, Cullen," Samson said coolly.

Cullen replied equally cold. "You're very welcome."

"Maybe we can become friends," Samson added, not even half seriously, but he was struck with déjà vu.

"Don't." Cullen slid his hand away and wiped it on his trousers. "That would be too much."

"Good," Cassandra finished, and she appeared calmer. "Samson, I suspect you are desperate for lyrium since you have not consumed any in three days. It is lucky we have a supply here, though it is about to run out."

 _Shit!_ Samson panicked, not wanting it to squander.

"If you are not a little shit, we will provide you with some," she said imperiously.

The Red Templar raised an eyebrow. "You Seeker…"

"Cassandra!"

"You're resorting to bribery, Seeker _Cassandra_?"

"You are mistaken," Leliana said, sounding very happy, "It is not bribery if you have earned it."

"Yeah, it is," Samson replied, knowing what she was up to. "But I would have been nice even if you didn't. I don't need the compensation."

"We know you do," Leliana addled.

 _Yeah, I do._ Samson agreed with her, but he wasn't going to say that.

"Prove it," Cassandra challenged, ignoring the last part of the exchange. She wrapped her fingers around the book and raised it, "Do you know what this is?"

All he noticed was the Seeker symbol, so he hated it by association.

 _An ugly book,_ would have been Samson's first response, but he had a reputation to uphold. "Is that query rhetorical?"

"Yes," Cassandra said jadedly. She sounded like she'd been outwitted. She opened it and went on a majestic rant to rival his speeches about red storms and justice. A chilling rally cry to restore order, closing the breach… and somewhere in there, she declared the Inquisition reborn. Samson was nonplussed. He thought they'd already made this decision without him. Perhaps it was official now, only delayed since they did not want his opinion.

Over the chaos of Cassandra's booming voice, Samson thought quickly.

"Who's the highest of authority out of you lot?" he questioned.

"We have no leader," Cassandra explained, "so I suggest that we set aside our vast differences and work together until we can elect one among ourselves."

That was, surprisingly, fair.

"You're with the Chantry but you're not authoritative?" Samson inquired, "What a surprise.'

Josephine was scribbling madly on her parchment. How could she make that look pretty?

"The Chantry does not fulfil its original purpose, so many of its members stand divided. Myself and Leliana included," the Seeker continued, "that is why we need those to unite under a single banner. The Inquisition existed before the Templar Order. It existed to guide the people in a world gone mad. The Order has gone astray."

Samson thought about how slow they were. He'd figured that out up to five or even ten years ago. They were the ones who were stupid. He still had the upper hand. "What reason do I have to stay?"

"You can leave, if you wish," Leliana said.

"Though we cannot protect you if you do," Cassandra advised, "and where will you find lyrium?"

"I'll dig it out of the…" _Temple with my bare hands!_ is what he stopped himself from saying. That was the red. They didn't know about that. Samson swallowed hard. "I'll find it myself. It's not that hard."

"I know it is three days late, but we do have to thank you for stabilizing the Breach, albeit temporary it may be." Cullen said, as though trying to lighten the mood, "and for now your mark is doing the same."

"Thank you." Samson strolled forward and flicked through the pages of the book. "So there's an Inquisition, and we're going to be our own army. Whatever. How do you suppose that will happen? It takes effort. We goin' to wander to nearby cities and sing of the Maker's glory?"

"Sort of," Cullen admitted, reluctantly.

"It is obvious," Leliana said, regaining her voice. "We must approach the rebel mages for help."

"I still disagree," Cullen said, and Samson felt alarmed that they'd descended into negotiation so rapidly. "The Templars could serve justice well."

 _Yeah, so long as you're not commanding them,_ Samson thought, "I agree with Cullen."

"You do?" Cassandra's mouth went agape.

"Does it look like I'm lying?" he challenged her.

"No." Cassandra's lip curled. "Though your appearance of honesty and deception are one of the same –extremely annoying."

Cullen snickered.

"All speculation, even if there are two against me," Leliana said.

"Unfortunately neither group will speak to us yet," Josephine explained, "The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition and you," she looked to Samson, "specifically."

"Good. They love me," he said, tone dripping with more sarcasm than Cullen had ever uttered in his lifetime.

"Shouldn't they be busy arguing on who is going to become Divine?" The Commander argued.

"Of course not," Samson denounced, raising a hand, "because they've all got their priorities wrong."

None of this was news, but it seemed to be to everybody else in the room. They went temporarily silent, probably stunned into it.

"There's something you can do to help," Leliana said, and it was curious she was talking to him. "A cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. And yes, it means she is a reasonable sort. She is not far and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable."

"You will not be alone, Samson, and there shall be more instructions for you later," Cullen said, "I would like to speak to you briefly about what to do about our little… arrangement."

All Samson could think was that he didn't want to talk to some Chantry Mother, no matter how 'reasonable' she apparently was. It was likely an act to save face. With lyrium in the forefront of his mind, he agreed by compulsion. "Yeah, fine."

There was some more waffle until Cullen joined him outside, beckoning him to a pillar adjacent to the door.

"Listen," Cullen hushed to Samson, with far more camaraderie than he'd displayed so far, "When you were unconscious I agreed to share some of my clothes with you, boots included. I know you probably don't like it. I don't, but we are of a similar build. They will fit. I will get you some if you wait here. My quarters are not far, also in this Chantry."

Samson, feeling worn out and with an aching head, hardly cared anymore. "Do they have fur or whatever that gross thing is?"

"This?" Cullen looked bewildered, gesturing to the red bristles around his shoulders. "Leliana suggested this accessory. I did think it was excessive at the time, but no. I have a lot of ordinary clothes, some from Kirkwall too. I don't know what you would like."

Samson shuddered from the thought of wearing Cullen's clothes. Did that mean they had to share underwear? He'd be buying new ones the moment he could, or just keep washing the ones he already had. "I want _lyrium_ ," he moaned.

"Oh, yes." Cullen stood up a bit straighter. "I think it would be fine to grab you some. You're going to be inoperable otherwise. How much? The flasks are of a hundred and thirty three milliliters."

Samson did the maths in his head. "Four."

Cullen flinched, apparently shocked. "Really?"

"Yes," Samson affirmed, and then he figured it might make the job easier to add, "Or seventy one milliliters of red stuff."

"The red…" the Commander repeated, and he only looked more concerned as a number of details started to click together. "You don't mean that horrible atrocity that-"

'Turned Meredith delusional' was probably going to be end of that sentence.

"I do," Samson interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest.

Cullen looked like he might be sick. "How… I mean… Sweet Maker, by what motivation?"

Samson avoided his eye.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, and of that he wouldn't change his mind.

His former roommate let his face fall into one of his hands, defeated. "You… that is mad."

"It is."

There was no point denying it, and he wasn't lying.

' _I suppose it does explain a lot_.' said the voice of Cullen in Samson's head, which he ignored…. blasted withdrawal hallucinations.

"I know," Cullen whispered, looking more hopeful. "Do you remember Varric? He is a dwarf, carrying a large crossbow… His tent is opposite Haven's entrance. He knows more about Red Lyrium than I do, much more. As… surprising as your choices are, well-and I won't promise we will find you some- if anybody knows whether it is a plausible idea or not, it will be him."

"I appreciate it," Samson said, taking note of this sudden change around in attitude, "Thank you."

At that moment, Cassandra marched out the door, with Leliana closely behind her. "Have you organized what you are doing, _Herald of Andraste_?"

She said the words disdainfully, though Cullen appeared sympathetic.

"Quite the title, isn't it?" he said, "How do you feel about it?"

"Hate it," Samson said shortly. In his tiredness, and now they were no longer in that room, he didn't see a problem with saying what he wanted, "They want to worship me, they can call me by name, or Maker, or Daddy, I guess. I don't mind the grovelling though."

"What?" Cullen gasped, like he might choke on his own shock, face as red as the fur on his clothes.

"You did ask a dangerous question, Cullen." Cassandra turned on Samson, disapproving. "Are you trying to irritate us?"

"A little bit," Samson admitted, honestly. His smile might have even looked pleasant.

"It is working," Cassandra said darkly.

"I thought so."

He heard the patter of expensive shoes, and his eyes followed the sound and spotted Josephine. She had her quill proudly tucked near the head of her clipboard, a perfect epitome of refinement. She drifted past them, fitting neatly between the gap of where Samson was standing and the wall, her hips swaying ever so slightly. She gave an acknowledging nod and barely smiled.

"Gentlemen," she said, and turning to Cassandra added, "and gentlewoman, of course."

The others didn't say anything, which Samson thought was rude. "Have a nice afternoon."

"I will," Josephine said, "It was, I admit, slightly amusing to listen to today's dialogue. Such antics do not happen every day, sadly. I will recruit some scouts and interested parties to accompany Samson to the Hinterlands. How thoughtless of me, do you prefer… which form of address should I practice?"

Josephine stopped in her tracks, patiently waiting Samson's answer.

"Um…" The Red Templar was stumped, half assuming someone might take over and answer for him, but no one did. "Whichever one you like here, but given my reputation in Kirkwall, the Herald might be better in letters, keeps me nicely invisible and nameless."

"Excellent," Josephine made a quick note on her parchment, "that makes my job a lot easier. Until evening."

So she departed to the room nearest to where they were standing. Samson wondered what kind of excuse he would have to make to talk to her, but then realized he wouldn't even know what to talk about anyway. Women. Talks with those rarely went well!

"Does the mark trouble you?" Cassandra asked, still staring at the door.

Samson shrugged. "I've had worse done to me."

"I don't want to know." Cullen said, also fixated on where Josephine had just been standing.

* * *

Samson walked back out to Haven freshly showered, wearing some of the most un-Cullen clothes out of the Commander's he wardrobe he could find, wishing he'd been given more than one flask of lyrium. It was all they could manage with good conscience until a practicable alternative could be organized. They didn't fucking get it! That one vial didn't do shit! He'd stormed out of that conversation and stubbed his toe on the ground.

He found the person he was looking for near Haven's entrance, sitting on a sleep bag in his tent. He recognized Varric wearing a red tunic that exposed a lot more of his chest than was necessary. And people complained that _Samson_ didn't look presentable!

The dwarf gave a small wave and abandoned notes he was writing.

"Hey, it's Pink Eye," Varric greeted.

"No," Samson countered immediately, wanting nothing to do with more name calling even if it was an expression of rapport.

"You're not a fan of nicknames?" the dwarf inquired. "Or maybe Pink Eye isn't my best choice. I had a few other ideas."

"No."

"Raleigh?"

"That's better," Samson muttered, stepping closer. He didn't much like Raleigh either but it would do.

Varric slowly got to his feet and brushed some snow off his sleeves. "You go from the most wanted person in Thedas to joining the armies of the Faithful." he mused, almost proudly. "Now, I like to think I'm as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but you –from what Cassandra told me- you take that to a whole new level with the extravagant lies and fight picking. Actually, I'm surprised you haven't run by now."

This dwarf, even with his big mouth, was already more tolerable than Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen combined.

Though not Josephine.

"Why run away when I can annoy people?" Samson questioned, figuring Varric would appreciate this.

Varric laughed. "Right. That's your motivation." He shook his head as his laugh turned cynical, like someone approaching the aftermath of an explosion. "Shit. You must be really fucked up."

"If I am," Samson said, used to these comments, "It isn't as rotten as everybody makes it out to be."

The breeze whistled in the Red Templar's ears and he stepped away so it wouldn't bother him as much. Too much of any stimuli made him feel uneasy.

Really, he decided he had more to gain by staying than running. Even if he departed, Samson wasn't sure where to go. The location of his Red Templars and Corypheus were unknown. Besides, these were his enemies. He could get information. All he could do was play along until something better happened.

"Is my vision going bad, or do I know you from my days with Hawke?" Varric said, figuring out the answer on his own, "The Champion of Kirkwall?"

"Yeah."

"I remember you making a pretty inappropriate comment about Daisy one time."

"And you used to play cards with Thrask," Samson said.

"How did you know that?" Varric questioned.

"I used to play Wicked Grace with him too."

"Good, there's one less person I have to explain the rules to," Varric replied, looking hopeful.

"I cheated on occasion."

Varric's enthusiasm fell. "Well, shit."

"Yeah," Samson agreed, finding it easy to be open with the storyteller, "Still want to play with me?"

"How do you even cheat at Wicked Grace?" Varric questioned, seriously pondering the dilemma. "Never mind. Is there a reason you found me? Want an autograph? You have a mind for a drink?"

"Cullen said you know about red lyrium." Samson said, wishing taverns sold it even if he had no money.

"You know about it too though?" Varric asked, suspicious, "What do you need me for? You were there when Meredith practically exploded."

"It was a good day," Samson recalled, a grim smile reaching his lips from the method and glory of Meredith's demise. "What's your opinion on it?"

Varric looked from side to side, and waited until a group of middle aged villagers finished bickering past, speaking of terrible booze and grass allergies. Finally, he edged closer to Samson.

"It's not my favourite topic of discussion," he murmured, darkly, losing all the jokes. "It's not just a different color, it has a whole host of weirdness all its own. A little shard drove my brother mad, was talking to him, singing and shit. Made things fly across the room."

It seemed Varric didn't like the red lyrium. Samson wasn't sure he should have expected anything else.

"Did you get rid of it?" he inquired.

"I wanted to know if there was a way to shut it up. So far it seems the answer is no. Now it's locked in a vault that the Mining Caste built especially to keep it away," Varric explained.

"If you could toss it though?"

"That's my goal, if we find any," Varric confirmed, relaxing a little more. "I've written to every mining caste house in Orzammar. No one's seen this stuff before or knows where it came from. So that never leads to anything good. My brother and I sort of discovered Red lyrium during an expedition of the Deep Roads. There was this idol there made of it. Bartrand brought it back to the surface, and everything's gone downhill since."

Samson frowned.

"Don't tell me you're messed up on the stuff?" Varric guessed, "Is that why you look so different to when I saw you last? Though I don't see snowballs flying to attack me."

"What can I say?" Samson said, placing his hands in his pockets, "You pick your poison, I pick mine."

The conversation faltered again as a bunch of elf children went running past with piles of sticks in their hands, possibly kindling for a fire.

Varric chuckled. "Yeah, my poison makes me act stupid for a few hours until I go sober. Yours can mess you up for all eternity."

Samson shrugged. This conversation had not gone as well as he'd hoped, if he'd even expected anything. Maybe he did, for he knew he might feel disappointed right now if his body let him. It was probably going to take a lot more convincing to get Varric to agree to figure out how to get lyrium. Or maybe he would get lucky and one of his Red Templars would find him soon, carrying with them a month worth supply.

He realized, in Haven, he felt a little lonely and isolated. Nobody understood his predicament. Samson didn't wake up one morning and decide he was going to start drinking four vials of blue a day. He had decided once that he didn't want any of it, and that is when his life started to go downhill. The cycle of struggle between lyrium and abstinence was a wheel that never stopped turning, and his brain got thrown around a lot in the process.

His head fucking caned. He wanted his Red Templars for company; he wanted… people here that weren't.

Maybe agreeing to the dwarf's offer for drinks was a good idea.

"I never wanted to live forever anyway," Samson mentioned, more to the mass of tents surrounding them than to Varric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to all those who are following more than one of my stories and I'm posting so quickly. I get random bouts of inspiration then I just churn out a chapter! I'm loving writing this. The thing with Josephine was not planned, guess my Samson is thinking on his own. I'm so sorry about the in-game dialogue. I tried to tweak and go around it as much as I could, but mostly it was unavoidable. Please rate and review, and thank you for the support so far.


	4. Haven III

Word spread quickly that the author of Hard in Hightown was getting the Herald of Andraste drunk, as the tavern got busier as the night went on, and the crowd became especially congregated around their table. Samson got increasingly self-conscious as this happened. Sipping at the scotch Varric bought him, he tried to pretend that he wasn't anxious.

What… this was his third drink?

The tavern was incredibly small, a fraction of the size as The Hanged Man, and a quarter that of The Broken Spine, the one that sold Fish and Egg Pie. What he would do to have one of those pies, and maybe some lyrium to wash it down. Varric called the tavern The 'Happy' Maiden, but the Red Templar wasn't sure that was an accurate name. He was immensely disappointed his emotional displacement endured, before realizing, what more damage was there to be done?

They were seated at a minute table almost licked by the fireplace. It had a set of antlers on the top which was decadent with more candles. His comfy red chair was directly opposite one door, and Samson had a clear view of the second. Two means of escape! And, sadly, of entry…

"You picked this seat. Why?" Samson demanded.

He peered down at his cards, trying to position his left palm in such a way that the green wasn't visible, but it was. Always. It reflected off the cards, bringing forth judgement expressed from a motley of threatening symbols: a Dagger, to hurt him, a Knight, and he was the sacrifice, an Angel of Truth, to remind him there was none.

His left side was starting to sweat.

"Andraste's ass." Varric chuckled, placing a card down. " _You_ chose it. Your teeth were chattering and… I will say sorry sooner or later that mistakes were made. I didn't think the drink would go to your head that fast."

Semi-withdrawal, even when on the blue… Samson wasn't surprised this had happened. It was like being feverish. That's what he told those he used to beg to, anyway. It was bad enough he didn't act or think normal, but not awful enough to sit around and do nothing…. Only repeat that cycle every day for three or however many years it was, and it becomes exhausting for a different reason.

"Can we sit over there?" Samson requested, nodding his head to a table behind him. He didn't know if the option was any better, just that it was further away.

The dwarf twisted around to check, his expression at ease.

"There are some ladies trying to flirt with… each other?" Varric remarked, sounding confused, "What's wrong with your seat?"

Samson kept looking at his cards, not wanting to say anything. The people in this place, they could see him, probably hear him too! They were all judgemental heretics like that Roderick, that's what.

_Focus only on the cards. Don't look away from their symbols._

He put down the dagger card, and, when he caught Varric's eye, tapped it.

 _They're out to get me,_ was his clandestine message… but Varric looked as though Samson hadn't done bloody anything.

"The serpent entwined dagger," Varric observed. "I swore _I_ was going to pick up that card. So are you no longer a crazed fan of the warm fire?"

 _How is this dwarf so stupid?_ Samson deliberated, wishing he had a quill to write it instead. _He's the writer!_

Splenetic, he remembered the reason he rarely went out drinking, and when he did, limited himself to one glass. For one, he didn't want to make friends with another substance, or the lyrium would get jealous. Two, it cost gold he rarely possessed, for lyrium and staying alive had always taken priority. Three, since his thought filter was weak and shaky, the mesh became obliterated under the influence…. which meant he stopped making sense very fast. He became more illogical the fur to Cullen's armour. Or feathers. Or whatever it was.

He shook his head and tapped the card again.

"What's…" Varric looked around. "I don't get it. Do you not like the card, or is it something –"

Maybe the dwarf did get why he was vigilant, but that didn't mean Varric should be talking about it.

"Shhh!" Samson hushed him, lowering his voice, "Think about what you say."

"Wait, you think those around us are trying to procure gossip or signatures?" Varric chuckled, _finally_ grasping the gravity of the situation. "Trust me, no one gives a crap about what we do. They're too busy getting blood noses by hitting themselves with their shot glasses. You're not nearly famous enough yet. Also I'd spot a fan of mine from a mile away –always the same few– and we have Bianca with us."

Varric caressed his crossbow proudly, balanced between the dwarf's chair and the wall. Samson had to admit it made him feel slightly calmer. His crappy sword may be safely hidden in Cullen's room with his armour, but at least he could spend time with others who were able to defend themselves. A few arrows in the right places and any troublemaker would be dead.

"What if one in here was a friend of your fans?" Samson postulated. "Or two? What then? You are cornered by possibility."

"By Andraste's sword." Varric truly did laugh then. " _'Cornered by possibility'_! Can I ask your permission to use that, maybe… once a day for the rest of your life?"

"Maybe if you contact someone on how to make red lyrium," Samson considered, and then he realized they were all listening.

 _Fuck!_ He cursed, freezing in one place. _Don't say anything cracked. No! Don't say anything._

"I- I – I mean…" Samson slowly put his cards down. "I'm only joking."

Swallowing the last of his drink, he tried to look casual. The table felt further away than it really was, so when he placed it back down he accidentally dropped it one inch from the surface, making the table clatter.

Varric, startled, put down his cards too. His gaze was punitive, reproving. "Come on, is that stuff really so important?"

Samson glared at Varric and pretended to brush some crumbs from the table into his hand, putting on a well-adjusted appearance to the spectators. Anything to look like nobody.

Varric didn't get it. He really, really didn't. The red lyrium was so easily misunderstood, just like all those who downed it. But that conversation couldn't happen now. Samson needed to side track Varric quickly, until they were able to move away from being the center of attention. "Have you penned any dirty scenes in your books?"

"Actually, there's a few chapters in the middle dedicated to just that." The dwarf leaned back in his chair and scooped all the cards together into a neat pile. "Who wants to know?"

"I do," Samson replied, gently prying the deck from Varric's hands, which he gave up.

"I should have guessed you'd be curious. You've got more perversions than the entire Inquisition put together."

Samson placed one clumsy lot of fingers over the others and started to shuffle the cards- a good distraction, even if his palm was spraying emerald sparks like a firesteel. "Being a rampant alcoholic is lonely. Sometimes. In those rare, once in a lifetime moments, it's nice to have some filth to accompany a drink."

_Surely the writer will grasp the rewording?_

Varric, even with his suspicious, judgemental eyes, appeared to smile. "Do you want a free copy? I've got a lot of spares from my last book signing."

"That depends," Samson considered, pleased the conversation was about _Varric_ and not him. "Is the smut any good?"

"By the rock or my ancestors, no. It's terrible embellished shit."

"Really?" the Red Templar found this intriguing. "According to who? Did you give it to a girl to read?"

"The ones who buy copies are mostly of the female assortment, yeah," Varric admitted, thoughtfully.

"So they like it." Samson pointed out, cutting the deck in half. "That means it's good. Pleasing the woman is the most important thing, right? Us lads, we don't need the books. We get off to the ladies getting off. You think your followers are mostly female? You're probably saving some poor sod's marriage with your embellished tripe you call shit. Not directly, but I'm willing to bet coin on it. If I had any, that is. Take it from me."

In the moment of camaraderie, the patrons staring at them ceased to mean anything. The Red Templar found enjoyment in the music playing, even if he wasn't listening to the words.

"Believe it or not, Raleigh," Varric said with a grin, "That made a lot more sense than you think it did." He chuckled, "and Curly warned me I would need a translator."

Not knowing who the nickname referred to, Samson smiled and finally decided to look around at the room, discretely. Some faces were turned in their direction, but not many. Still, he didn't want to talk about himself in here.

"But good and bad points put away," Varric continued, crossing one leg over the other. "What pretty lady are you going to give the book to? Or maybe your tastes _are_ inclined toward my writing. I wouldn't know."

Samson paused. He knew plenty of women: the ones of his Red Templars, those involved with Meredith's conspiracy, Lady Elegant, Faith from the Blooming Rose… None of them were here, though. Feeling slightly sick, he pondered on who he knew in Haven. Giving Cassandra the novel was out of the question, Leliana would tell him off for being disgusting… Josephine, on the other hand, nah. She'd never read it with him in the room.

Not wanting to be overheard, he kept his answer simpler. "Cullen. He's got enough girl in him for the two of us."

Varric thankfully seemed amused by this answer. He gave a modest laugh. "Fair point! Hey, maybe you can ask Minstrel?"

"Who?"

The dwarf nodded to someone in the distance. "Her actual name is Maryden. I can't figure out if she's a man or a lady's bard. Maybe offering her a book will make that clearer."

_Varric wants to know a stranger's sexual preferences? Alright…_

Samson pretended he was looking into the fireplace while he snatched a glance at Haven's musician from the corner of his eye. She was a blurry amalgamation he could barely decipher- pretty enough, though not his type. Minstrel's dark hair was tied back. She had freckles, many layers of clothing – appropriate for the cold - and her instrument was either a lute, or a cittern. Her vocals were pretty, but the words were not, because they were Orlesian.

"Why do you care who she likes?" Samson wondered, knowing that Varric's sexual orientation was probably crossbow.

"I like to get to know the village people," Varric said, seeming more comfortable, "cross out some rumours, plug my book. The usual- offer a hand for a hand."

The Red Templar considered the opportunity. The justification sounded genuine enough. Rumours weren't nice for anybody's business, and he needed an excuse to get out of the chair and search for vacant tables.

He put down the cards, hid his green palm in his pocket and stood to his feet.

As he stepped the mere five or so meters to reach the Maryden, he started to hum along to the slow, laid back tune. Half way through the chorus, like the others in the tavern had disappeared, the woman noticed him. Her dark eyes haunted him like the lyrics he didn't understand. He offered what he hoped was a smile of a sane man, and stood half a meter away from her, waiting for a pause in the song.

"Excuse me," he began, putting on his sweetest tone, which still sounded shit. "Is there a version that will make sense to my ears?"

Why she accepted his request, he had no idea, though Maryden abruptly changed the language. " _And if you really don't exist. Tell me, what am I living for?_ "

Samson wasn't fond of this version either, but he stood aside to let others through to the bar, wishing the song would end. Maybe it was better he didn't know what it meant. This brought on more déjà vu. Even if he _wasn't_ being delusional, the sensation of isolation was depressing. Blighted withdrawal!

"… _To forget the touch of your lips in a world where my heart is sore."_

Now side by side, Samson prodded her with his elbow. She nodded, acknowledging him. As the melody teemed the tavern, the man tried to focus on the ceiling to avoid any awkward instances of eye contact with the patrons.

" _And if you really don't exist."_ Maryden intoned _, "I'll squander life and call it love. Like artists with grisaille and bistre, new colours that aren't enough, splattered by the hazy mist."_

The echo of the last note subsided and scattered clapping filled the room, along with some whispers of whether the Orleasian or English version was better. Samson wasn't sure which version he liked more. The singing was nice but he hated Orlais and depressing lyrics in equal measure.

"Your queries were not rejoindered, Herald of Andraste?" she murmured, her accent so much more obvious when she wasn't singing. It made Cullen sound like a _Marcher_.

"Sad song," Samson pointed out, mildly upset she'd recognized him by his title, "but why sing in Orlesian when most don't speak it?"

Maryden strummed to the melody she had just been playing. "It is, originally, from Val Royeaux. I like to be faithful to its basis. I have travelled far, and there are patrons who like it when I express a fuller array of my talents."

"I'm impressed you can sing and play an instrument at the same time," Samson complimented her. How could he get the subject onto what Varric wanted to know?

Maryden nodded glumly with a hollow smile, evidently a hint that she wanted to be left alone.

It was obvious. He had to make this quick and run along.

"My friend with the crossbow over there calls you 'Minstrel'," Samson began, pointing out Varric. "Don't you find that offensive, given it means 'little servant' in Orlesian? Isn't that so vile and belittling? Would you like me to tell him to call you by your name instead, like a proper man should? Maryden, right?"

He hoped it was not too coquettish, but he was impressed he remembered this term from his Kirkwall days. It helped to know a whore, sometimes.

Maryden considered the proposition. "Is that how Master Tethras views me? As a servant?"

"Ah, I'm not sure," Samson admitted, pleased that he'd intrigued her, "but is it really worth taking a chance given how many slimy lads are in these types of places?"

Maryden sighed. "He does behave peculiarly with his crossbow. Perchance it is best you remind him that women are not lesser than men, or _dwarves_. If he uses it to refer to me as a performer -which is how I prefer my audience use it – it does not concern me."

"I didn't mean to get in the way. I thought you should know, just in case." Samson continued to weave a story, but at least the intention of kindness was not insincere. He thought he had enough of a grasp on this woman's character to convince her. "He's giving out free books, romance ones. I read most of mine. The characters are fascinating. Though there are _some_ chapters in the middle you might want to read when others aren't over your shoulder. Would you like a copy?"

Maryden plucked one of the strings of her instrument a little too harshly. "How is the female archetype portrayed? Is it negative?"

Samson wished he had a translator, and he thought very hard on how to not make his lie unravel. "Err, I was so enthralled by the story I hardly paid attention, though… some characters, they are rotten shit."

It would sound convincing, right?

She gave a small smile, gaze on the audience. "…and the parts I should keep to myself?"

"Very…" the Red Templar tried to think of a word that wouldn't be interpreted as insulting to the female species. "Mesmerising, like your music."

"Thank you, Herald." Maryden tightened some of the strings on her instrument and sipped at a glass of water. "Tell Master Tethras I would like a copy." She prepared her fingers to strum. "I must return to performing."

"One last detail," Samson said, partly forgetting about rumours. "This minstrel is curious. Do you like your romances to feature specific _types_ of relationships?"

In hindsight of the days to come, he realized maybe he should have referred to himself as the Herald and not a servant or _performer_. Though, it could have ended worse. It wasn't too inaccurate by either translation.

"I will read anything well written," Maryden said with an enigmatic smile, and she started to sing another song without further comment.

 _Fuck!_ Samson cursed to himself, _that didn't answer anything!_

He looked around, trying not to look baleful. The tavern had only gotten busier. All the tables were full, so he returned back to his seat with Varric, as some muscles in his arm involuntarily twitched. Stupid withdrawal.

"You talked for a decent while up there," the dwarf observed, looking intrigued, "so, any rumours I can dispel?"

"Only one," Samson said, exhausted, "that you think women are rubbish."

* * *

After the dwarf had disassembled the rumour to Maryden, he bought her beer. Samson was grateful Varric didn't want to kick him to the gutter for his failure.

Samson had brushed off his paranoia as 'needing fresh air' and the dwarf, thankfully, didn't question. Apparently Varric was done with the tavern anyway so the two headed to Varric's tent to talk.

"I'm surprised she wanted to read 'Swords and Shield's', actually," Varric mentioned.

"What's the shield supposed to represent?" Samson inquired.

"I leave that up to the reader's imagination," Varric said evenly, as their boots echoed slightly on the dirt pavement, "The words sounded better together than _Swords and Sheaths_ anyway. Besides, I can't make metaphors or euphemisms too obvious. Then I don't get to hear all the crazy theories from screaming girls about what tragedy will wreck the characters' lives in the next book."

The storyteller crouched down to open the lock on his tent with a small key from his pocket. "Minstrel's song as we left was called 'These Stupid Games', so all in all, I think we made her night interesting. She'll probably talk to you again. And hey, she'll get a free book soon. How did you pitch it?"

"By making stuff up…" Samson said, crouching down too (which made his muscles spasm more), " _carefully_."

"Hey, I do that too. Lying gets a bad name, but it has a place in salesmanship, making yourself look good and not getting your head cut off by Seekers who kidnap you."

Varric put the key back in his pocket and Samson scooted in after him. Which Seeker had tried to guillotine this guy's head?

"Wise words."

The tent, although small, reminded Samson of training and travelling with his Red Templars, so there was something very homely about it. Varric went briefly outside to light the lantern with one of the fire stands already out. The crossbow was opposite Samson, as though it had important details to add to the conversation.

"Before the trouble with Minstrel started," Varric said, making himself comfortable, "Sorry. I should have clarified. What makes red lyrium a beneficial purchase of yours?"

Samson tried to stretch out one of his arms, the one that wasn't working properly. That _was_ better wording. He felt slightly less defensive.

"Lots of things." The Red Templar was going to leave the description there, but it was obvious Varric wasn't going to let that happen. "Like…hmm… it makes me feel normal. Sometimes, it's like… being _better_ than normal. Powerful, almost."

He skipped the detail that the 'better than normal' doses were being saved for the Elder One's plan.

The storyteller, however, tensed in a confused expression. "How on Andraste's sword does that work? My brother went batty on it, and he wasn't even drinking it. Crap, and there _still_ hasn't been anything flying around!"

"Eh." Samson shrugged. He honestly didn't know, but he understood the full extent of the negative side effects as well as his own name. "Meredith said her sword came from the Deep Roads. Was that the chunk your brother found?"

Varric looked a bit guilty. "Yeah, probably best not to mention to anyone. The Seeker's mad enough with me already."

Samson nodded. He wouldn't tell anyone. The man felt closer to home. Certainty, his beautiful sword, had come from this dwarf's brother! He hoped Maddox had found the pieces from the Conclave rubble and fixed it.

"Right. For some freaky ass reason you're not affected by it like Bartrand was," Varric said slowly, offering Samson some beer, which he accepted. "Do you experience any of the creepy shit?"

Samson thought about it, and then pondered again. And a third time, just to be sure. "My mouth gets dry, I need lots of water," he began, slowly, "my hair thinned, my nails..."

"I said _creepy shit_ ," Varric clarified, his look intensive, "I can _see_ what it's done to… anyway, that's not what I was asking. The messed up stuff is what… we like running away from like the Arishock."

Samson hesitated and poked around in his brain like a blind person seeking obstacles. He didn't like being rational about this.

Varric appeared to notice. He held out the bottle, "Drink, just drink the whole thing. I got it for you. Don't worry about me; I've got more coin than I know what to do with."

So that's what Samson did, covering his mouth to hiccup after he'd sculled it. "T-thanks."

It didn't taste as satisfying as lyrium did.

He realized he still didn't want to think about the scary side effects, though he knew. He _knew_ the answer. Cullen already understood it too.

"My memory is shoddy," he admitted, looking at the ground. "Yeah, um… that's mostly it."

The second statement was also a lie.

Varric went along with the answer. "Are we talking brain wreckage bad? What do you mean?"

Samson thought that curling up in the foetal position was an appropriate posture for this conversation, but maybe that wouldn't look very good. Instead, he hugged his knees and placed his head on them, feeling strongly, inexplicably awful. His eyelids started twitching of their own accord, and then he realized it was because he had stopped blinking. So he reminded himself to blink.

"My head's a big mess," Samson said, not sure how to really elaborate. This very second, his mind was foggy and incomprehensible.

 _Blink_.

"Okay, maybe alcohol wasn't a good idea," Varric said to himself. Samson heard him move how he was sitting. "Do you remember where we were seated in The Happy Maiden?"

"In the center, next to the fire," Samson described, the picture clear as the lantern in the tent, "Maryden and bar were behind me. The fire was to my left, you were in front. There was a door behind you and one on my right."

Varric seemed impressed with this answer. "What did you do yesterday?"

"I was unconscious."

"That was a trick question."

"I know."

There was a pause, and Samson wished he could block out Varric's voice, but that wouldn't look very good.

 _Blink_.

"Where were you born?" Varric inquired.

"On the floor of my mother's kitchen in Lowtown, 9:04," Samson replied, as the answer became easily accessible.

None of these answers were lies. He heard Varric's louche tone.

"Look, maybe I'm crazy, but your memory seems pretty good."

"It isn't," Samson said, but he really didn't want to be talking about this. "My head hurts."

And it did, a lot.

Varric let Samson rest on his sleeping bag, which had a pillow. He wanted to hide under the covers.

_Blink._

"Can you give an example?" Varric suggested, "Doesn't have to be big, I don't want you going tragic antihero on me."

 _Breathe_ , he told himself.

Samson tried to think of a recent example, one that didn't involve déjà vu or delusions. "Cullen… some people told him my memory was wrecked, but I didn't know who he was talking about."

"That is weird," Varric mentioned. He muttered something to himself. "I hardly know anything about you, but the two of you went to the Gallows. Maybe it was someone there?"

"Plural," Samson corrected, remembering the notion of 'they'.

"Okay, more than one person."

He felt the words to describe his thoughts were narrowly avoiding him like pellets of rain in a storm. He had considered his time in the Gallows, but only for fractions of a second. Now, it was the same. A task as simple as being aware of the idea that he may have forgotten someone felt extremely… wrong. It felt so hugely uncomfortable it was like somebody, _something_ was trying to disembowel him, by clawing into his intestines and twisting them. It was dangerous to think about. Bad things would happen, and he didn't want to push the boundaries of a thief with a knife to his throat. The longer he thought, pain in his body intensified like a particularly rancorous venom.

"Loudmouth,' Samson said, giving Varric a nickname, "I can't talk about this anymore."

The command was despotic.

"Really?" The dwarf sounded startled. "But… we hardly even got anywhere."

"I know," Samson acknowledged, feeling sorry for Varric, "I can't."

"Is…"

It was like the rogue wanted to ask something, but decided it wasn't a good idea. Samson had to admit, if he was in Varric's position, he wouldn't know where to go from here either. Instead, he tried to verbalize a sensation he had been feeling with increasing intensity for the past couple of years. It was strange to form it beyond an amorphous impression, for how nihilistic the imagery was. He hadn't told anyone, not even his Red Templars.

"I feel like if I do," he started, realizing how odd this was going to sound. "I will die."

"What kind of answer is that?" Varric said bewildered, "Um, you mean metaphorical dying… like of embarrassment or losing your dignity, right?"

"No." Samson said, wondering what definition of dignity Varric thought he had. "Orthodox, literal type of dying…."

An awkward pause followed, broken by the scraping of boots from outside and drunken chatter.

"Shit," Varric muttered, his voice hoarse.

The man rolled over slightly to look over at the dwarf, but he wasn't doing much.

"I sound nutters, don't I?" Samson said, though he knew the answer to that question.

"I don't know…" Varric mused, "Okay, it's a _bit_ crazy and creepy. But that's the bad stuff, that's something. Yeah, I think we can classify that as definitely creepy. Maker's ass."

For a person who had entered the conversation wanting to know the contents of Samson's mind, he didn't sound particularly happy about discovering it.

_Blink and breathe._

He felt a lot calmer now he wasn't thinking about the mixed up details of his memory, though was at a loss of how to proceed in the conversation. He had coaxed Red Templars out of hallucinations and delusions before. It made no difference he'd seen these symptoms in others. It didn't matter that a small minority of them had their lives taken away by the Red Lyrium's hand. They knew death had been coming, and they kept taking it, despite recommendations to leave.

It made no difference if he had seen his soldiers get consumed by the Voices and the Song. There was no way to tell what exactly had taken the light from the eyes of his Red Templars, a shame it was impossible to converse with the dead and find out. Maybe it was something like this that gave the final blow. Maybe it wasn't. Whatever the reason, it wasn't worth testing the plunge into the ocean, for the current and tide was immeasurable in unknown waters.

He didn't want to prod his toes into the fog of his past anymore. All the déjà vu were warnings to stay away. He remembered. The Red Lyrium did it for a reason, because it wasn't important. There was a world to change, and focus was paramount. The power of red lyrium was only granted to those who were capable of wielding it, and he was their King. He was their General. If the memories were useful, they would have stayed, just like the few names and friends he remembered from Kirkwall. Bad memories made people weak, and good ones made them strong. It was simple in design, a straightforward solution. The way to create perfect, infallible people, an invincible army, was to cut away the parts of the self that were holding them back.

Basically, all things considered, this conversation didn't matter anyway… more or less.

"How about we use one of the tricks Bianca reminds me about sometimes," Varric pondered, his voice almost an echo. "It's called _logic_ and _rationality_. I'm not the biggest fan of either, but hey, it might be useful here." he paused, "What are the chances the… creepy whatever you want to call it… will actually kill you if you search your memories?"

Samson changed how he was resting so he could look Varric straight in the eye.

"By the Blight, I don't know!" he shouted, caustic, "What are the chances of a fucking rock making things fly across a room?!"

"Okay, okay," Varric said hurriedly, bringing his palms up to make peace. "Shit, good point. I wish I knew more about the red lyrium. Research takes way too long; it's a curse of science."

The Red Templar wanted to change the subject. He hated that Varric was getting attached to him. It was a recipe for disaster as it had always been.

"Why do you even care?!" Samson shouted, not meaning to be so loud. "Why won't you just get me some red lyrium and stop digging for my personal shit like you've lost the arrows to your bleeding crossbow, you sick fetishist freak? I'm just a fucking person!"

Part of him thought, _maybe insulting Varric isn't a good idea_ , but he was too tired and too sick of everything and angry. Spit started to fly from his teeth in rage. "A _person_ who likes to drink lyrium, just like mages and Templars and the sick drink it! Does anyone complain when you go binging scotch over Wicked Grace? No. But who knows, maybe you're an alcoholic. Maybe they're _endorsing_ your problem. But they don't care, because they get your coin. Just like gambling. Isn't that worse? It's this out-of-order bullshit drinking and gambling rationality I despise. It's not like alcohol can make people use magic like lyrium can. It doesn't protect mages or save the weak. It only _destroys_ them and gives you hangovers. No one would bat a fucking eyelid about my " _problem_ " if lyrium was everywhere, or if I didn't have to beg for coin to get it – which, by the way, I wasn't using it that much 'cause I couldn't afford it! Do you know how many lyrium addicts there are that have a job? Plenty and no one goes pointing their dirty, self-righteous fingers at 'em!"

"I know it's pretty scary," Varric assuaged, trying to brace the storm of a tirade. "I was only curious given what my brother used to tell me about it. I didn't mean to seem like I'm being a bastard about the blue stuff. That's your life. And yeah, if it wasn't messing you up too bad I was going to get you some."

"HA. HA." Samson mock laughed. He wished there was something here to throw at Varric, but he was fond of the pillow. "So now you won't? I was fine until you started asking me about it!"

"Ehh, that's highly debatable," Varric remarked, and Samson hated him for using logic, "Curly has a lot of problems with you. And you said there are all these people who aren't even part of your life anymore, you don't even know who they are or put a name to a face. How do you think they feel? If I was one of those friends, I'd feel pretty messed up. I'm just warning you in advanced, I wouldn't want you around."

Samson was just some piece of dirt to step on; there was no rhyme or reason to care. Why did it matter how other people felt? Though, he found an answer to that too, very fast, almost like he'd thought it once before.

He realized what the nickname referred to. _Stupid, stuck up Cullen_ , "You think you know so much? Nothing. Maybe it's good I can't remember 'em or much of anything, because then if I knocked them off their feet, I won't feel sad about it!"

He suddenly clamped his mouth shut. It was coming; _something_ was coming to get him. It was the déjà vu again, but it wasn't like anything he had experienced before. It was five times stronger, and more pervasive, churning into every cell and blood vessel of his body. Abruptly, the shadows spiralling from the lantern in front of Varric formed angry faces, the material of nightmares. The air thickened and heated, like it was trying to strangle him. The walls were falling and the floor was disintegrating. The perfect encapsulation of this experience was 'impending doom'. He felt somehow light headed, disconnected from his body and very much _in the moment_ at the same time. The world was wrong. The meanings were all misaligned.

A dagger, to kill him, a Knight, and he was the sacrifice, an Angel of Truth, to remind him there was none.

He had to run. He had to find red lyrium. He needed to get it right now. Something bad was going to happen. Something horrible was going to happen to _him_.

Varric looked confused, and the dwarf was shaking, but then Samson realized it was because _he_ was shaking.

"Hey, are you quite alright there? Some scary shadows aren't about to…"

"Shut up!" Samson yelped, more from fear than anger. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear their plans. They showed signs, they showed pictures, and what he felt so far was horrible. The air felt so thick it might become solid and crush him into oblivion, into another dimension where he ceased to be. His body felt like it was falling through endless space. In terror, he clutched onto the sleeping bag beneath him, but the sensation continued. Was the whole _world_ moving? This was like his nightmares, premonitions of his death.

He couldn't get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes from here! But he hadn't seen red lyrium anywhere else.

"By the Dead Maker- Loudmouth, what do I do?"

His voice was so weak, a whimper, or was it a strong yell of apprehension? He had no idea. Nothing made sense. The volume was warped and ever changing.

Varric didn't do anything.

"Please … I don't know what to do!" Samson wasn't sure why he sounded so desperate. "Help me!"

Varric had no means to assist. He was no saviour, no angel, but a storyteller. No one could stop the Maker when He decided it was time for you to die. "They're going to hurt me! They want to slice and dice my guts with their claws, Varric… please, don't leave me. Don't go. I don't want to die!"

"By Andraste fingernails, what?" Varric was completely lost. Either he was really slow on the uptake or Samson's experience was going extra fast, "Was it something I said? How did this even happen? Shit, I'm so confused."

Samson wasn't sure what he shouted back, and Varric appeared to be talking but he couldn't hear it. Not anymore. But there was a different sound. He heard the roll of boots, lots of them, pacing, like an incoming storm, swooping overhead, around and alongside him like vultures.

Mortified, he clapped his palms over his ears, to check why they weren't working. There was no sound, though he _felt_ the air hit the inside of his ears.

 _Fuck!_ He thought. _I don't want to be deaf! What good am I if I can't hear?_

Heart racing, he looked down at his hands. The left palm was swirling with a small cloud of green, and his right hand was doing the same with red. No one else could see that. He was going to get found out.

 _Then_ … he pondered… _what are the boots from?_

"We heard sound complaints from all the yelling."

The voice was familiar. It was Leliana. What was that bitch doing here? Maybe they were outside.

"Please come out, Varric."

That was Cullen.

It clearly wasn't a hallucination, as Varric gestured with his hands, maybe 'stay there', said something and left the tent.

The light was so luminescent and uncomfortable but he couldn't turn away either. Like lyrium.

Samson stared at the green and the red, as his insides twisted and churned.

Water dripped into the colors and made them spark jolts of electricity. Tears. What had possessed him to cry?

"Sorry, Curly, I was, uh, let's say I was keeping Raleigh company."

Even if he didn't hear his mark hiss with light, or the echo hitting the tent walls, the voices were crystal clear as though they were right in front of him, like they were getting transmitted directly into his head.

_Blink and breathe._

"What is all the fuss about?" Cullen's voice asked, his usual annoyed self.

_He's going to open the tent._

_He's going to look at you… and JUDGE YOU._

Not questioning the source of these voices, they might have been his own thoughts, Samson curled up into a ball and hugged onto the pillow like it was his last remaining object connecting him to this earth. He closed his eyes, felt himself shaking and kept his eyes closed as the green light got brighter.

"By the Divine!" Leliana was heard first. "His mark is out of control."

"Hey, we got it more powerful already," Varric said.

"Do not joke about this now." Cullen sounded exasperated.

Samson felt a hand grasp his shoulder and shake him, which felt really familiar too, a stabbing sensation through his skin. He thought he screamed. Or maybe he was just crying like a baby. He really… didn't know anymore. He just wanted it to stop.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"For Maker's sake, Samson, it's just _me_." said Cullen's voice. Was that real?

The hand let go of him. Thankfully.

"Why is he like this?" Cullen asked, tired.

"Ooooh, Commander!" Leliana sounded triumphant, "Look, I think they might have been drinking."

"Nicely spotted, Nightingale, but before you jump to conclusions, let me set the report straight," Varric interrupted. "He only had two scotches and a beer."

"Don't jump to… Varric!" Cullen shouted, though it wasn't only anger in his voice. "Bless Andraste, why… _why_ did you give him alcohol?"

"Both of you - we must keep our voices low or there will be more complaints." Leliana hissed.

"Where are they going to go?" Cullen scolded her. "There's no one else awake to complain _to_!"

"Curly, volume," Varric reminded him. "And I didn't think there was much wrong with having a night out. He was fine until… what? Five minutes ago. The alcohol would have been more or less out of his system."

"Is that so?" Cullen's tone was oozing with suspicion. "And 'more or less' is hardly 'not at all'. Did he just magically _get_ like this, sobbing and shaking like he's got night terrors? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"I… it's a long story," Varric explained. "He started freaking out and losing his shit."

"Thank you, Varric! I didn't think I noticed!"

Maybe Cullen did have a handle on sarcasm.

"The two of you, this is not helping." Leliana was the calmest out of them. "We must pray to the Maker for help."

 _Good luck_ , Samson thought.

The Commander wasn't listening. "We are supposed to be traveling to the Hinterlands tomorrow. Samson needs sleep and rest, not… whatever _this_ is! I've had enough of a grumpy Samson, the last anybody needs is one with a bloody hangover."

"Was I supposed to be able to predict how he would react?" Varric tested.

Another hand touched Samson's head, but he didn't shake it away. This hand was smaller, colder, slender…. It wasn't familiar. That was okay.

"You shouldn't have overexerted him!" Cullen shouted.

"Samson – Ser Raleigh Samson, of the Gallows, Herald of Andraste…" Leliana listed a bunch of names.

"You're kind of... You think he can't make his own decisions?" Varric said. "That's pretty harsh, even for you, and I know you're a nice guy."

"That…. well, technically he _should_ be able to! Honestly, I don't know why he isn't dead yet by pure accidental causes! Maker knows why or how he survived the Conclave, maybe He made a mistake!"

Samson was too overwhelmed to make much of this statement.

"Commander! Varric! Be quiet!" Leliana called to them, "I'm trying to talk to Samson."

Cullen was having fun on his soap box. "And I will give Samson some credit; my beliefs on him are exceedingly inflexible. Perhaps I am mad, I certainly thought so when I first transferred to the Gallows – but at least, even if I am everything he says I am, I have an _inkling_ of insight into the consequences for my decisions! Samson does not need a lot, Maker's preserve him, only a minute grasp of awareness, but he has none! He never has, as far as I'm concerned."

"Ser Raleigh Samson, are you listening?" Leliana's voice blended into the noise.

Yet Cullen continued. "And you're right, perhaps I should have told everybody not to let him wander about on his own, but… Urg, I guess I thought it was obvious. Hate me if you like, Varric, and I'm sorry, but I can't stand this nonsense anymore. I assume it is self-inflicted." The ramble was voluble and swift. "I didn't _ask_ to be placed in that room with him in the Gallows –if I wasn't placed there I probably wouldn't really care and be able to manage this better. Maker knows I'd make sure to request a new room! Anyway, yes he can make his own decisions, though they are stupid, _stupid_!"

The hand on Samson's head moved down to one of his shoulders and squeezed it.

"RALEIGH…' came Leliana's voice, "Listen to my voice – are you there somewhere? Can you move?"

Too much was happening at once.

"Do you think you could explain in simple words what the difference is?" Varric said, more calmly, "and I'd make it really easy to understand, in case he can hear you."

"Please, Varric, he _cannot_ hear me!" Cullen yelled. "And if he could, he knows exactly what I'm talking about. I don't think I need to explain it again."

 _You're a fucking prick, Cullen_ , Samson thought. The rage starting to fight against the perpetual state of panic.

"Can you hear me, Samson?" Leliana asked him. Her voice sounded pleasant compared to the other ones in the tent. "Maker, I can't grab his hands. _Blessed are the ones that stand before the corrupt and the wicked_ … Samson?"

The voice… it was one unrelated to all his past memories. He needed her to stay… and the others to go. Concentrate. He had to let the woman know he was not a useless thing.

Maybe he grumbled, or something. After some awkward prodding, his eyes still closed shut for the fear of what he would see when they opened, he managed to find the person's hand with his wet and clammy one. The red and green behind his eyes dissipated.

"Cullen, Varric…." Leliana said, "Please go discuss your personal disputes somewhere else, maybe in the Frostback Mountains for how loud you are. Look! He is holding onto my hand!" he felt some cold air hit it, perhaps she moved it, "The two of you should be more gracious. Divine Justinia would be _mortified_ if she saw this, how impatient you are."

"Big words, Nightingale." Varric sounded amused again. "Thanks, and sorry. Shit, this is…"

Leliana squeezed Samson's hand.

"You don't have the slightest _idea_ about patience, Leliana!"

That was Cullen, and judging by the sound of four boots, the dwarf and Commander had left the tent.

Samson wanted to tune out their voices, so he focused as much as he could on Leliana's hand. His bodily sensation became more apparent. His ribs hurt, his stomach hurt, his throat burned…. His eyes stung.

He tried to open them. One eye at a time… half the tent returned, a blur of orange light and black.

"Sometimes I do not understand the Commander," Leliana said, smoother now, more to herself, but Samson focused on her voice.

"All my years in the Gallows, the few times I saw him outside of it, never once did I see him _cry_. Yes. Not once. And no, I am not joking."

Cullen's voice still echoed in his head, but it was fainter.

"Shut it! Shut it!" Samson said loudly, trying to knock his head into the ground.

"No, you musn't _do_ that, Samson." Leliana admonished, her gentle fingers grabbing onto his head. "They're gone now. We don't have to listen to them bicker and argue anymore…. such foolish behaviour. If the Chancellor heard it, he will be speaking of it for weeks. And who will manage it? Not the _Commander_! Poor Josie! It is so wicked. She is the nicest out of them all and she, I think, gets the most work. But at least it is over. Is there anything you would like me to retrieve?"

 _Lyrium_ , Samson wanted to say, but he shook his head instead. That probably wasn't the right answer, and if the others could hear him, he didn't want them to. Who was Josie?

Both of his eyes were open. He felt like he was in shock. Everything was on pause, and even though the environment was in its proper place, there was a lingering anxiety that it might start caving in on him again. At least he could breathe and blink without hindrance.

"Really? That is surprising," Leliana said, "At the very least I should ask someone to get you some water."

Samson had to find words. He had to be _here_ , with Leliana, and not _there_ , wherever there was. She was a Seeker, but there wasn't that much bitchiness in her, not when it really mattered –and that was important.

The other Chantry worshippers were still bitches though.

"That's never happened before," Samson remarked, blankly. Truly, it never had. His voice was frail, and it hurt his throat to talk, like he had a bad cold.

He flinched as Leliana's face blurred in front of his vision, turning to examine him. "Is that really true?"

Samson nodded, and after everything, his filter was gone. "I know I lie most of the time, but I'm not lying now. I don't want that to happen again, so I will be nice. I'll do my very _stupid_ best to be nice."

 _Thanks Cullen,_ he thought absently, _for the cooperating and teamwork._

"I believe you, I am not that ill-advised," Leliana said, and he felt her knees touch his back, she unlaced her hand and rested her palms on his ribs. "I am no stranger to lying. I do it a lot in my work too. There are certain places, surroundings and company where it is safer to lie than to tell the truth. Sometimes, it is essential. It is a skill, like any other. It is foolish to ignore it, avoid it, or to not learn how to lie, to not practice it. If one needs it to survive, their chances are better if they are experts in deception and manipulation. There are naïve fools who think it harsh, though they do not know the depths of the world's cruelty."

He had learned how to lie for a similar purpose, and like a tap turned too many times, sometimes it started flowing on its own when the valve should be closed. Samson felt a great deal of respect for Leliana. She was smart. That next morning, he would think that Leliana would make a fantastic Red Templar, but he was too busy keeping present to think it right now.

"I wasn't lying about you having nice legs," Samson cajoled, with a smirk, "though I tend to exaggerate here and there."

"I noticed immediately," Leliana said, though she was almost amused, "and I still do not appreciate your commentary about my legs. Your flirting is disgusting."

 _Blink and breathe,_ he reminded himself, as his thoughts started to flow a bit more smoothly. This comment, like most of them, didn't bother him.

"I know," he said, "I don't know why I do it much. Kind of happens by itself like the lying."

"How bizarre. Flirting can be used as a survival skill, though if that is what your intentions with it are, you need to practice a lot more –and maybe compliment a woman's personality and not how she looks."

Samson wasn't sure what to say to that. "I used to have a habit of bribing women with sexual favours."

Leliana made a repulsed sound. "That is foul," though she added, "Did it work?"

"In most cases," Samson admitted, somewhat proud of himself, "though I was a bit more subtle about it… if I'm not completely off my face in believing so."

Leliana chuckled, "You are one of the most unsubtle men I've ever met." She tapped his ribs. "Perhaps this is judgemental, though I cannot imagine you offering your body to anybody."

"I haven't always looked this wrecked, big surprise," Samson said. "And you were the one talking about personalities."

"Even if the Maker gifted you with handsomeness, I don't think that would improve your appeal."

"It works for plenty of scum in Thedas."

"Like you?" Leliana teased.

"Hey."

"I am not withdrawing my comment."

Samson took a deep breath and tried to move. The easiest was rolling onto his stomach. He peered into the flicker of the lantern, then to Leliana.

"The others are coming back?"

"They will, probably soon, since there's no more screaming," Leliana pointed out, looking to the gap in the tent.

"How bad was it?" Samson wondered.

"Extremely."

"Great."

"I have an idea on how you may redeem yourself for this disaster, if you are open to other points of view," Leliana suggested.

"I don't follow the Chant," Samson answered, "Of course I'm open to other points of view."

"That was rude."

"Was it?"

"Yes," Leliana replied, wiping her hands on the fabric over her thighs. "You're a hideous Knight of the Maker. But this is a decent example. If you would like to make a virtuous impression, which –you don't have much choice, you will likely be put on trial if you don't…"

Samson didn't want to go on trial. Corypheus would be furious.

"… You should resist the temptation to anger everybody just because you find it droll."

"But how else would life be entertaining?" Samson mock moaned, though the words were honest.

Leliana's eyes were that of a hawk, the expression steely. "Perhaps if you believed in the Maker, as all Templars are supposed to, you would not need to resort to such petty means of entertainment, for you would be able to find enjoyment in the small delights of everyday living."

WRONG!

Samson reached his hands forward and dragged himself along the floor like a sloth. "Do you know what my joys in everyday living are?"

Leliana numbered some guesses on her fingers, "Lyrium, lying, being a fool, a nuisance and a lecher."

"Kind of," the Red Templar purred, though she had missed leading and training an army, exercising, being important, playing card games, getting a decent night's sleep, feeling normal, joking about with his Red Templars, reading sometimes, helping mages escape the Circle and… actually, that was the extent of it.

"Then you are corrupt," Leliana claimed.

"So what?" Samson challenged.

"Simple minded…"

"That supposed to be a bad thing?"

The Spymaster wouldn't give up. Her gaze drifted to the tent entrance as voices and footsteps were approaching: Cullen and Varric.

"You lead a depraved, empty existence," she finished.

That was probably true, and that's why it was extra annoying. Samson wiped his eyes, ready to return to his bed, that same cottage he had woken up in from unconsciousness. Thankfully, it wasn't too far from here. He couldn't believe he was meant to be _travelling_ tomorrow.

"That's _rude_ , Leliana." Samson borrowed her terminology. "Thank you for snapping me out of my head, or whatever you Blighted did, but I don't appreciate the running commentary on my life or self. I'd like this to be easier and you're being an impasse."

"Exactly," Leliana said sternly, "I will be nicer if you do. In fairness, I task you to be better than me. I will even ask Josie to keep a tally. We can make it a game. As I am far better versed at the Game then you are, please do not take it personally if you crumble in defeat - points for me, you, and for our precious Commander. That is what you are after, isn't it? You like playing games."

Samson got to his feet. He didn't care Cullen and Varric were coming back. If she wanted a challenger; she was going to get one!

"You're going to have a rough time beating me, Leliana," he warned her, "I can be a gentleman. I've kept it hidden for those worthy of my time up until now."

Like Josephine, his Red Templars, and those he used to consider friends in Kirkwall.

Leliana actually smiled. "We'll see about that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done for everyone who made it to the end of this gigantic chapter. Thanks for following along so far! This is the first chapter which has no in-game dialogue so I hoped you enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it! Please let me know your thoughts.
> 
> The songs referenced in this chapter are:
> 
> "Si tu n'existais pas' (If you don't exist) by Joe Dassin. I came up with the english adaption from the translated lyrics myself. The song is from 1975 but there is a 2013 cover/remake with Helene Segara & Joe Dassin (his ghost, lol) I recommend you check out. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmqruqnj99M
> 
> There's also "These Stupid Games" by Elizaveta, the bard singer for Dragon Age Inquisition. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwQ7Sk0yJuY


	5. Haven IV

Usually Samson considered himself to be fearless, but stepping through the door to Cullen's office, even if he'd been asked to do just that, was mortifying.

It wasn't unusual to have his choices scrutinized. It was a daily occurrence back in the Kirkwall days, but this was different. The Red Templar felt stupid upon discovering that he'd understood the entire squabble the Commander and Varric had but found he wasn't confident on how to respond to any of it. He couldn't truly dissect and win the argument without having all the information, even if the chances were high that Cullen was wholeheartedly wrong. Deep down, he didn't want the truth. He didn't want to hear that an aspect of Cullen's angst was Samson's responsibility.

The room wasn't really an office, but a bedroom with a small table and two chairs lazily thrown in the middle. Cullen sipped at some tea behind the imitation of a desk, and was the living definition of overworked. His lids were heavy and his eyes were pink with exertion. Before three pieces of parchment fluttered away from in front of him, he snatched and grouped them awkwardly together. Samson knew from the time he got reinstated into the Gallows that this level of disorganization wasn't normal for the Knight Captain. Cullen was always one to have every detail in the proper place ahead of time.

The blond's gaze rose to his without a morsel of unease.

"You're finally awake," he said, words dragging through the air. "That's reassuring, I suppose. It is pleasant to see you are…"

Judging by how the Commander arranged a page, it had been upside down. He surveyed the steam of his tea with a dour complexion. Perhaps the man had been about to say 'pleasant you are well' but then realized how stupid that was. For it _was_ a baleful notion. This morning had not been pleasurable. The sleep was short lived, his mind vigilant with questions and Samson dreaded the day of travelling ahead of him.

"I feel like shit," Samson finished, with every intention for the bluntness to stun his colleague. Surprisingly, it didn't.

"Yes. I am hardly surprised." Cullen actually humored him. "I'm terribly sorry about that incident last night. Quite the drama, as I'm sure you can imagine. I have a lot of work to do trying to smooth it out, on top of everything else." he put his mug down and glanced at Samson, "Are you… alright?"

Maybe the Commander was trying to be nice, but that wasn't what caught Samson's attention. Yes, whatever it was had been unexpected and terrifying, but Cullen was behaving as though Samson had been oblivious to the entire ordeal.

_Actually, I don't have to do any 'imagining', Cullen, because I heard everything you said. How about you apologize for that?_

The only detail withholding this was that Samson had agreed with Leliana to be more cooperative and agreeable. Even though Josephine or Leliana were not in the room, he wanted to report to Leliana after that he was taking her challenge very seriously… and maybe his boyish giddiness wished to inform Josephine too.

Also, he wouldn't mind having at least one friend in Haven, so he went along with Cullen's version of events.

"I didn't know what was happening, but I'm pleased you were there with _help_." Samson said slowly, really trying to sound like he was thankful, but he couldn't feel it.

The only saving grace of the situation was that Leliana had been there. He was annoyed that Cullen had come at all given how much more severe he made it. The Spymaster had it under control. She'd been the only one who had reached his distant, panicked consciousness.

Judging by how the Commander arranged one, a page had been upside down.

"As much as that baffles me, and… Maker's breath." Cullen brushed some grit from his eyes. "That _is_ kind of you, but there's little need to thank me. I am the one the villagers have been complaining about."

"Really?"

"Yes," the Commander confirmed, positioning his mug on a part of the table that stood even. "I did not respond to the situation as courteously as I should. Varric and Leliana were right to reprimand me for it, and I daresay I deserved it from the villagers that were rather upset." He groaned, "What an absolute nightmare. Varric's tent really is so far out in the open. I didn't… I suppose I didn't _think_. There. For that, I am sorry."

 _Good_. Samson thought, feeling standoffish.

Needing to keep his lie consistent, he said, "But I didn't hear it. Why are you apologizing to me?"

Cullen stretched his legs out from under the table. His gaze only occasionally met Samson's, but his voice was morose. "I… I feel rather guilty. Varric was telling me about his brother and how sometimes… I don't know. In the odd moments when I have flashbacks in broad daylight I am acutely aware of my surroundings, despite how it looks. I… I didn't know what was happening to you and I panicked. My hope was that, on the opportunity you _did_ hear anything of what was discussed, that you can forgive me." The man suddenly seemed rather awkward. "But you didn't. Anyway…"

Cullen started to read the letter in front of him, his elbow sliding slowly down the slant of the table. Was it possible Cullen hadn't had much sleep either? It hardly even sounded like he believed his own words. Samson was curious about this confession. It took guts to admit something like this, no matter what circumstances surrounded it. He respected that, even if Cullen still irked him. Maybe Cullen could be persuaded to apologize more.

"What if I did hear something?" Samson tested, trying to sound level headed, "Did you have a speech planned for that?"

Cullen froze for a few seconds, before giving a delayed chuckle. "I don't _plan_ speeches, Samson. They just kind of happen that way. I suppose it comes with managing the Inquisition forces. Or being around Meredith too much." He gave a wry smile. "I really hope you are being honest to me about this, though I'm not sure how the conversation would be different. Possibly…" The blond appeared careworn "I think I would have a very difficult time continuing with my day. This whole… _circumstance_ is extremely distressing to me. I don't like emotions getting the better of my concentration and it tends to happen around you. Not many can get that reaction from me. Maker, perish any thought of being proud of that."

The Red Templar paused. Maybe lying wasn't so bad in this circumstance, if Cullen found the alternative that terrible. And he wanted to say he'd been nice.

Samson still didn't understand why or how Cullen had gone from an asshole to an extremely nice person within the space of a night's sleep, especially since the Commander didn't look like he'd slept very well. Maybe it was the night terrors again.

"I'm good at inciting reactions out of folks," Samson said, "in fact, sometimes I even get _nice_ words. Like right now." He _thought_ he smiled. "Funny, that."

The man peered at Cullen's armour like suddenly seeing it. There was no Templar symbol on there. The Commander blinked at him wordlessly, like a silly little goldfish.

"You're still a Templar, right?" Samson inquired, genuinely curious.

"Oh, that's what you were looking at," Cullen realized, leaning back in his chair, "Nice of you to notice. Erm." He paused. "It's a _transition in progress_ , I suppose."

He avoided Samson's eye and suddenly felt it content to glance out the window where the snowy haze of Haven was brightening. That term almost sounded as ridiculous as 'being cornered by possibility'.

"Meaning?" Samson queried.

It was clear he'd gone too far.

Cullen's eyes narrowed. "What do you care?" he snapped, and then he groaned and sipped some tea. "Sorry. Sweet Maker, leave it alone, Samson. I really don't want to talk about it right now. Just know I have been thinking about _transitioning_ away from the Order for a number of months. I am considering arranging…and don't get full of yourself. You're only a slither of the reason why."

Samson chuckled. "Really, I'm full of it? You sure bein' _empty_ of myself isn't more accurate?"

The Commander let the steam of tea create condensation on his face before continuing. "To business. We were supposed to leave for the Hinterlands an hour ago, though we all agreed to let you have a sleep in. As such, everybody is ready to leave except you, doing odd jobs in the meanwhile. I recommend you get a move on."

Leaving, yes. Speaking to some Chantry mother was going to be awful, but travelling meant the potential for combat and crossing some of his Red Templars. There was potential for it to be turned around.

"Can I have my armour and bring my sword?" Samson said, spirits lifting incrementally.

Cullen glared at him. "No, you're going stark naked."

The Red Templar screwed up his nose in protest, though the Commander abandoned his tea and trudged belligerently to the wardrobe, searching for garments. "I cleaned your clothes yesterday because it was your first day back, but you are more than capable to manage it yourself from now on. Yours are still damp, so here." He threw back a dry, linen shirt and lengthy slacks, which Samson almost dropped, not expecting it. "As you could probably tell from all the tents, we've been straining Haven's resources, including the water supply, so you might have to wash them at a stream half way down the mountain or melt a bucket of snow. There's some castile soap in the garderobe…. if that's not too difficult?"

Little did Cullen know Samson was used to this routine with his Red Templars. He would appear brilliantly competent at this simple task. "Easy and done, Commander. What's your schedule today?"

"Me?" Cullen jerked his head in surprise and kicked the wardrobe closed with his ankle. "Plenty. Now… Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine and I have been organizing meetings on our own, though we'd like you to participate when you come back from the Hinterlands. There is a lot to do and having another point of view would be useful." Samson was wondering if someone had told the Commander to say this. It seemed too nice, too sudden and too open minded. "And we have been putting our heads together to get some clerics together at Val Royeaux."

The notion of Orlais shattered any good will generated by this heart to heart with Cullen.

"Urg!' Samson nearly spat in hauteur. Chancellor Roderick was enough. A number of grand clerics was a terrible thought.

"Don't be like that. We need to do _something_ to convince them you're not an utter lunatic in order to prepare ourselves for mage or Templar allies," Cullen said carefully, and he smiled, "Unfortunately for you, being a moron isn't in my contract so I can't go and make a fool of myself for you. And even though many, myself included, are completely expecting you to be inadequate, I am aiming to liaison with some escorts in the city to _instruct_ you to be less of one beforehand. Think of it as a holiday."

Samson, rapidly losing faith in Cullen again, crossed his arms. "Orlesians?"

"A cultural excursion," Cullen clarified, sternly.

"Leliana can't teach me their ways of idiocy?"

"No," Cullen said, "It is important you get comfortable coexisting with those you don't want to."

"But I don't want to!" Samson protested, throwing down his arms like a ornery adolescent, thinking _enough with all this tosh!_

Even though he knew that was missing the point.

"There is nothing finalized at present," the blond continued, giving Samson a wary look. He leaned over his desk, picked up a quill, found some blank parchment in a draw and started to write in quick sketch like lines. "Josephine will be after your feedback for the finer details if I get a response. Speaking of the Ambassador, head to her office after you are dressed –oh, and hand her this as well."

The Commander held out the small note.

"What?"

Samson snatched it and spun it around so the writing was legible.

Lady Josephine,

Samson was not happy with the suggestion to go to Val Royaeux, though I did _not_ lose my temper. I think that means I get a point for the tally? The Herald was reasonably pleasant up until then – so I believe that should be rewarded as well. Please pay me in coffee once I get to ten. I'm happy to return the generosity. Discuss with Samson on how to compensate him.

Regards,

Cullen

It was possibly the most idiotic message the Red Templar had ever seen. Not only was this confirmation that Leliana's suggestion was becoming a trend, but Cullen was involved _and_ acting smug about it!

"What kind of Inquisition _is_ this?" Samson tried not to shout, but he did anyway, feeling even stupider. As if by a force of habit he neatly folded the page and tucked it in his pocket. This was odd. He'd expected he would have scrunched it.

At least if he nicked some coins from corpses in the Hinterlands, he could buy his _own_ clothes and stop needing to rely on Commander as much.

Cullen smiled, either high-handed or pleasantly. "Enjoy the mountainside."

Gathering the armour and sword in his arms, Samson shut the door to Cullen's "office" with a shaking hand, wishing he could rip the handle off and throw it across the Chantry hall. The idea of passing messages was familiar, but… that was because he'd dreamed about it a number of times.

* * *

" _P.S – Cullen called me a lunatic and a moron_ – oh, I see, that was your commentary." Josephine finished reading the paper and put it down. "Your writing is almost illegible, though, yes, I support this notion. You merit recognition for your efforts. And Cullen as well…"

As though to prove it wasn't a joke, she removed a golden outlined parchment from her desk draw, structured with impossibly straight lines and dotted dashes under each of the names listed. She wrote in the corner that Samson read upside down as – 'be patient, and then you can visit the Singing Maiden.'

"You don't seem the tavern type, Lady Josephine."

He was still so emotional after Cullen's stupid ramble that the words flowed easily. He would never be rude in front of Josephine, never try to be, even if she made him angry. She was a kind lady, and he appreciated that. And this office actually looked like what it was supposed to.

The Ambassador quickly covered the page. "I… did not know you could read so flawlessly from that distance."

This was thanks to the Red Lyrium, but he didn't want to say that.

"It is…" he thought on what compliment to use, or maybe he should keep it simple, " _readable_ writing."

"But it was upside down!" Josephine seemed embarrassed. Her imploring eyes were full of worry.

"Like I said," he repeated, making sure the sword was positioned properly, "Readable, but very…" _don't say it,_ "pretty writing."

Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

"It is not my greatest attempt at cursive," Josephine admitted, bashfully, and she pulled another page from her clipboard, showing Samson, "This is how it _would_ look given the proper effort required."

The Red Templar tilted his head to one side, bewildered. This writing did look more slanted and aligned nicely on the page, but there wasn't a drastic difference. "It's fine."

"Fine? Yes, I see, that is a –you are not behaving as to look adversary." The words were clunky, nervous, "There are a number of matters to discuss," The Antivan searched her draw for another piece of paper. "Just so you are informed, as the Inquisition is a new endeavor, if at all possible we aim to develop a modest presentation. Teams of up to five individuals, depending on skill, are assembled together to share supplies and camps as needed. It is the best way to not attract a suspicious amount of attention, you see. I collected names of interested parties who would be willing to travel to the Hinterlands in your team."

Samson nodded dutifully. His Red Templars were not much different, though he liked groups of two or three, maybe because the level of skill was so high. "How many do you think I should choose?"

"That is entirely up to you, your Grace," Josephine said, peering up at him. Her eyes darted. "May I suggest three or four, to see how you find it?"

"You may," Samson said, looking temporarily at his metal boots. Partially, he wanted to ask about the events of last night. He assumed 'Josie' was Josephine, so Leliana implied that the Ambassador would have the job of smoothing the chaos of his mental breakdown. Did she hate him now, or think he was weird? She was definitely more uneasy, and if she was keeping a tally of everyone's good behaviour the conversation _had_ occurred. "Who are the choices?"

Josephine was startled out of a stupor. "There is a list, extensive. Out of those you have met thus far, do you have a preference? If not I endeavour to discuss possible soldiers of the Commander's."

She hunched over her piece of paper, appeared slightly fearful. Samson paused. He'd only really talked briefly to a few, but he knew who he got along with best. "Can Varric?"

"Of course," Josephine said, making a small note on the paper, "That is one. Who else? You may share your opinions with me, however unfavourable, if it pleases you."

Samson didn't mean to stare her down, but he might have looked intimidating just now. It wasn't from wrath but apprehension. Being invited to rant was very kind, though his could turn sour and upset her.

"I don't…" He forced himself to blink and breathe. "Uh, I mean I was under the impression you had lots to accomplish without me."

His jaw going rigid, Samson demurely pushed some of his dark hair from his cheekbones. It wasn't fair that she was cute, because he was disgusting and obscene. If only she had met him before he'd taken the red lyrium when he still had all his hair and didn't look etiolated.

_By the cruelty of the bleeding Andraste!_

This was why he detested having friends. It made him want what he couldn't have. He pushed the guilt away, admiring her innocent regard.

"On the contrary, I am simply attentive to your welfare, Ser Samson," Josephine explained, "I apologize. We have yet to hoard a merchant to source lyrium. It has not been as easy as I had hoped. I was unfathomably concerned to hear of what transpired in Haven last evening. Varric and the Commander were particularly remorseful. Sadly, the Grand Clerics find it difficult to reconcile that there are Templars operating outside of the Chantry, so they are reluctant to assist."

 _No surprises there,_ Samson thought _, stupid fucking Chantry. This Inquistion is so slow, but at least they're better than the rest of the bloody world._

"I feel we are to blame for not attending to your requirements quickly enough," Josephine said contritely, "so please allow me a moment to be sorry as well."

The Ambassador, to the shock and bewilderment of Samson, nodded -which might have been an apologetic curtsey if she had been standing. He hadn't expected _her_ to care.

"I think you've gotten the wrong idea." Samson chose his words carefully. "I need four times the blue of the other Templars. It's messy. Cullen's right to limit the amount I take. I'll never thank him for it, and I hate it… but I don't want you getting cut up too. I'm broken into enough pieces. Don't slice your fingers picking it up. You need them to write don't you, Lady Josephine?"

_I hate having friends_

Josephine appeared mildly startled. This might have been alarming if she didn't look as nervous anymore. "Diplomacy is important to maintain the Inquisition's credibility, and it would thoughtless to claim to be conciliatory if we do not attend to individual needs. The quantities of lyrium Templars take is -I believed it was _supposed_ to be the same, but from what the Commander has told me, there is variation, some greater than others, for Templars come from all over Thedas –even Rivain and Nevarra."

"Yeah, but…" Samson hesitated, trying to think of how to explain his opinion to Josephine. He doubted the other Templars needed as much as he did, even with this variation taken into account. "Lyrium does me a whole lot of good, but it… hm, I don't know." He still thought it didn't do much bad, either, considering the episode was caused by… eh, stuffed if he knew. "What about Leliana? For goin' with me."

"Leliana?" Josephine said. She raised her eyebrows, then shook her head and hands, "Unfortunately, no. Her role in the Inquisition is Spymaster, so her work is –as it should be– confined to management and communication. She relies on combat only in life threatening circumstances, so she has stepped down from that aspect."

"I get it." Quite honestly, this made him respect Leliana more. "Why fight when one can lead?"

"Indeed, or -if you don't flinch at me for saying so- be Ambassador to Orlais in Antiva when I could be a chief diplomat to a burgeoning flower for justice?"

"That's…" Samson began, wishing to describe it as 'amazing' or 'impressive', but settled on nothing. "No to the Spymaster then? That's a shame."

Perhaps it was written on his face that his respect for Josephine had escalated tenfold anyway.

"I'm afraid not," she said shortly, balancing her elbows on the table, "though I see you are finding it difficult to think of names. There is… if it would make the arrangement more appealing, I can negotiate with Leliana to request she go with you to Val Royeaux. Personally, I think she will rise at the grand excuse to visit."

"That would be great." Samson managed to properly grin for the first time all morning. Secretly, he thought Val Royeaux would sound even better if Josephine volunteered to go as well, but that seemed out of the question. "Do you like Val Royeaux, Lady Josephine?"

"That is a wondrous question," Josephine said, eyes twinkling, "The truth of the matter is I have many memories there, great and small. Leliana and I moved through similar Circles in Orlais, though I believe we actually met in Val Royeaux. That, to suspend disbelief, is how I was recruited for the Inquisition."

Samson thought it made some weird sense that the two girls he found most tolerable in the Inquistion thus far were close friends. He liked hearing the story, though her disposition changed to fatigued.

"I am somewhat disheartened you did not warm to the thought of an extra day in the city." Josephine gave an arduous sigh. "It is a beautiful place. I miss it, and the idea of finding a tutor was my own doing, though Cullen volunteered to oversee it. I alleged it would add value to the meeting with the Grand Clerics if you had time to become familiar with the sights, aromas, language and customs." Her honey eyes lit up with joy. "There is a restaurant north east that serves the most delightful _Blanquette de Veau_. It was a comfort like no other when studying at the University of Orlais, and apt in this season. If you decide to go, which I dearly hope, I recommend it."

It was terrible that he'd been so negative given how much Josephine seemed to love the place. He didn't want to go to the stupid Hinterlands, but it had the potential for benefits. Perhaps the same would be with Val Royeaux. If visiting the city would inspire a smile in Josephine, maybe that would be the value. The choice would never be driven by self-interests, because this ambassador would never get close to him. Even if there was a potential -which there wasn't- he wouldn't let it.

There was another odd detail Cullen hadn't clarified.

"I was told _escorts_ ," he said the word with much suspicion. He guessed it wasn't the whore type of escort. Royans usually had stupid names for things, but it made little difference. Right now Samson wasn't sure that kind of escort would be a comfort anyway. It would remind him too much of Kirkwall… and that was bad.  
He suddenly became more aware of how empty and numb he felt.

"He did have someone in mind," Josephine said slowly, "I was not aware he had ever been to Orlais, so I admit I was surprised."

"Yeah, I don't think he's been there either," Samson admitted. Maybe it was all some plot so Cullen could visit Orlais because he was jealous of being stuck in piss-poor offices all day for the past few years –Gallows or Inquisition.

A rapt knock came from the other side of the door. "Ambassador Montilyet." It was a small voice. "Lady Cassandra is wondering about when the Herald can depart to the Hinterlands. She… she's worried the soldiers are going to get heat exhaustion."

"What? Not in this climate," Josephine whispered to herself, though it was clear she was slightly annoyed. She raised her voice, while Samson stood, pretending to be invisible. "Thank you, gracious Turner. Please let Cassandra know the Herald will be out in five minutes, more or less, and to advise Commander Cullen to position them in the shade with plenty of water."

"Very well, Ambassador Montilyet."

They waited for the footsteps to disappear from earshot.

"Heat exhaustion, what humour," Josephine muttered to herself, "lest I fail to recall it is all in good spirits –a simple 'hurry up' would… oh, Andraste."

She sighed heavily.

"Hurry up then, Lady Josephine," Samson said, with a smirk.

"Very amusing," Josephine said, though she did not quite smile. "This is serious. I must make this quick, I have already tarried enough for one morning." She suddenly readjusted her chair and stared intently at the pages. "Who will visit the Hinterlands with you? Varric, I'm convinced, will be happy to oblige. Please decide on two more. "

Samson frowned. He only knew Cassandra or Solas. He didn't trust the Seeker to cooperate yet and Solas made him feel paranoid, both which he was not after when traveling on the road.

"Two arbitrary Templars," Samson said, "or a mage and a Templar, if there _are_ any mages here."

"There is an amount," Josephine said slowly, her quill dancing as she wrote. "Before it slips my mind, would you like me to do anything about Cullen's discourteous comments? How would you like to be compensated when you have attained enough favour at The Game?"

The Red Templar stared. How much lovelier could this woman get? It seemed like a cruelty at this point.

"Um…" he hesitated, while 'talking to you', 'red lyrium' and 'read Varric's book' all lingered through his mind. "Do you know about the red lyrium?"

Josephine crossed her ankles over from under her seat, appearing uneasy again. "I know _of_ it, though that is the extent of my knowledge." She hesitated, "I bid you well on your travels, Ser Samson. Varric can be in charge of deciding the outcome of the red lyrium impasse. To my understanding, that was partly the case before, though I will ensure it is more solid an arrangement. He has the most accurate grasp on how it is likely to affect you. He is the best choice. And Leliana will give you some lyrium before you go, if you had not taken it already. Leliana and I decided you could have two vials for today, given the disaster of yesterday."

She gave a coy smile, and Samson hated that he liked it.

"Thank you," he said, wishing he had something inspiring to tell her. She put so much work into her appearance and work, yet she wasn't a callow fool. It was so refreshing, and oddly familiar. Yuck.

He knew she looked a lot like Faith, but… more well-adjusted and predictable. While he still ached for that woman, there was something else too. Maybe it was from a dream. It was so familiar, but he couldn't think about it now. This was an opportunity to say something meaningful.

"Um… you have a very nice…"

Make up? Dress sense? Writing? Smile? Everything?

The advice Leliana had given him about commenting on physical beauty crossed his mind –in his opinion, at the entirely wrong moment.

"Personality," he finished, somewhat clumsily, peering up to the ceiling for mercy, a fine pattern of stone. The kindness was rather lacklustre and dumb on its own, so he added, "because you have many sweet, intelligent opinions and you state them with humility."

 _By the Blight, that was such a terrible compliment,_ he thought, bothered. He shouldn't have said anything… but at least he hopefully didn't sound gross and weird.

He knew nothing could come of them, so why had he said it? Knowing his luck, she'd be scared away forever.

When he looked down, Josephine appeared a little flustered… probably because the comment was not to her tastes, or simply _he_ wasn't, which he was more than used to. That would be fine. He was numb anyway.

"That is...goodness." She tapped her quill on the desk and blotting ink over it. "You're far too polite."

Samson couldn't help but grin. She didn't look impressed but it wasn't disgust either, and she was also _very_ wrong about something. "You haven't heard me talking for long enough." He gently moved his jaw from side to side, to stop it from freezing, "I've got to go. Thank you, Lady Josephine." He gave a humble nod of the head, not halting to look at her and turned around. Before he reached the door, she mentioned.

"Please if I can request one last moment of your time, about the red lyrium," she said tentatively, "It seems an important… resource. It has the potential to be a foundation of debate in the Inquisition or the many Houses that surround us. Perhaps you may teach me more about it when you return, before all the questions pile onto my desk?"

Samson pressed his lips together in a stern line. Talking about red lyrium went really well last night! But maybe if he was cautious not to sink too far into the depths of his soul, it would be okay.

She made him feel slightly less numb, which was all he could ever hope for. Her golden sleeves and soul would be admired from the other side of her desk forever, an unapproachable daydream.

Sometimes he wished his dreams were real, and nothing removed him from emotion more.

Raleigh Samson, who Haven now knew as the mentally deranged Herald, peered over his shoulder just long enough to glance Josephine in the eye. From here he could tell her gaze gleamed with caution but trust. He didn't know if he disliked or liked it, or which force was the more powerful. The entire prospect of opening up to another person, a woman he admired, felt incredibly threatening indeed. It was a very familiar hell, and one he promised himself not to approach.

The desire to comfort Lady Josephine won the fight. He gave a small smile as he grabbed onto the door handle.

"Maybe next time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had very little in-game dialogue. I only adapted some lines of Josephine's. The story is going to have MAJOR SPOILERS for Samson's Shield of Shame. It will give the "what's" but not the "hows" or "whys", so please be warned, if you don't want to be spoiled, you might want to stop reading here.
> 
> Please let me know what you'd like to see from this story, since I will deliberately deviate from quests in the game. I'd love to get your thoughts and feedback.


	6. Frostback Mountains II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback so far! I'm having a lot of fun writing this story. There's some foreshadowing for my Samson prequel fic in this chapter but no major spoilers. I wonder if anyone can spot it?
> 
> This chapter is mostly fluff. A first for me? Hurray? No in game dialogue though!
> 
> Thanks to SteveGarbage for letting me include his OC Cain in this chapter from his story "Red Fallen Sun". I highly recommend it. It's incredibly detailed and the characters are super interesting. I hope I portrayed Cain reasonably here... fingers crossed! https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11038423/1/Red-Fallen-Sun

It didn't take as long as Samson thought to discover who would accompany him to the Hinterlands. Despite the time of day Haven luxuriated in a monochrome haze. The Chantry's unyielding visibility preached to the General that free thinking was a falsehood. It was discouraging.

Surrounded by horses, soldiers and scouts he double checked he had his belongings, weapon, and that the saddle and bags were fastened to his horse as Cassandra did a head count. The clanging of combat drills was lesser today.

Samson addressed his stallion. "You're going to be kind to me, Silence?"

The black horse tossed its head like a recalcitrant Orleasian.

"Yeah, I don't like you either." Samson replied, slackening his grip on the reign, "but you're with me so we work together."

Silence neighed in reluctant agreement as the plod of boots over snow and gravel drew nearer.

Samson span around to witness Cullen approach. He was supporting a runny nose with a handkerchief and accompanied by two other Inquisition members. The Templar armour was immediately apparent on one. Samson didn't like the surely look on the man's face, even if he wasn't much younger.

"Samson," Cullen said briskly, "You're lucky I know my recruits so well. I successfully procured accomplices that fit your descriptions for your Hinterlands visit. In record time, I might add."

The words were almost said with pride. For someone with a snooty nose, the Commander was far too happy.

"You make it sound like a holiday." Samson said, disgruntled.

Cullen dabbed his nose, "That might not be inappropriate. I'm certain if anybody can make a holiday out of a burning mountainside, it is you."

Avoiding small talk, Cullen nodded to the Templar on Samson's right, "This is Ser Cain Wygard. He's one of the few recruits I managed to salvage from the Gallows in one piece. He is as excellent in combat as he is in thinking quickly… an asset on the miserable chance you fail to do so."

Ser Cain clearly didn't know what to make of this comment. He opened his mouth to reply when Cullen, rushing, clapped his hand on the other newcomer's shoulder.

It was immediately clear he was a mage from the staff and maroon robes, though he was young, possibly early twenties with an idly cropped moustache and a half burned eyebrow. "This is Enchanter Brice. He used to be a mage in the Gallows."

The kid gave a small smile, but it might have looked more appropriate if he scrunched up his face because there was nothing but mischief all over it.

_Why are they both from the Gallows?_

It couldn't be a coincidence. This was a trick.

"Are you trying to punish me, Knight Captain?" Samson muttered.

"What?" Cullen's mind had temporarily blanked, "Yes. Perish the – of course not. How ridiculous. These names were on Josephine's list and I thought they would complement your skills nicely."

"Skills…" Samson muttered, curious what Cullen thought his talents were. He had to be polite, "Thank you. We need to leave for our holiday now. Be sure to wash your hanky before you drop it on some poor lass."

"Good luck, Samson."

Cullen hardly waved as he departed.

Cain gave a humble bow. "It is a privilege to meet you. With respect, Herald, Enchanter Brice and I will return to our steeds, though we will not be far behind you."

The Templar raised a finger, pointed somewhere in the distance and the two were about to depart when…

"Before we chat anymore," Samson said firmly, "No calling me Herald. It's Ser Samson, or brother. Got it?"

"Count on it, brother." called Brice with a half-hearted salute, making Samson cringe. The mage's accent was so thick with Marcher that it had almost crossed the threshold into Fereldan.

Cain gave an enigmatic nod before disappearing.

The General's assessment on the matter was simplistic. One accomplice was laid back, and the other was loud… hopefully they wouldn't hate each other.

* * *

Samson was pleased to slow down once the worst of the mountains had been crossed and the land evened out. There had been no major obstacles thus far. The landscape was refreshingly not white. Proper yellow rays were nascent through the cloud and the dead grass glittered with recently melted snow.

With some striking hand-eye coordination, Varric tossed Samson a book from his horse. Even more amazingly, Samson caught it and smiled as the magenta and chromatic cover of 'Swords and Shields' flashed from his left hand.

"It is a signed copy." The dwarf said with a grin, "A good way to pass the time when your ass is sore."

"Yeah… when Cullen kicks it." Samson said. He knew which part of the story he wanted to skip to. "I was curious. Now there's no need to be. Thank you, Loudmouth."

Distantly, Samson recalled the events of the previous night. Varric had tried to defend him against Cullen and had apparently felt terrible about the issue. "You holdin' up after yesterday?"

"Yeah. You forget who you're talking to." Varric said, though his eyes told a different story. "I've cleaned up worse messes in the Hanged Man when ladies decide to flirt with me at the wrong moment."

Samson wasn't sure this was the same sort of mess, though he had to admit, "The Hanged Man does have some foul messes."

"Like the ladies themselves…" Varric mused.

"Like the glowing palm of the Maker's bride!" called Brice.

The Red Templar almost dropped the book from the prod between his shoulder blades. Not wanting to manage this kind of rubbish, he ignored it and tried to find Cain instead, realizing the conversation was no longer private.

"We're like Team Kirkwall, aren't we?" he said.

The Templar caught Samson's eye and ushered his horse to the other side. They were now in a line with Varric and could probably trample some rogue Templars like this.

"Aye, I'd favour Team Kirkwall to Team Gallows." Cain admitted, keeping a careful eye on the scenery in front.

Samson found this surprising, since he was the opposite, "Why's that, Ser Cain?"

The Templar observed Samson very carefully, the chestnut of his eyes strained with cynicism. "I took oaths to the Maker, but I would never swear my loyalty to the Gallows itself. It was miserable."

"Hey, it was a prison." Varric said, as though this wasn't obvious, "and a pretty terrible one at that. It couldn't keep the red lyrium out, or know when to tell the Knight Commander she should probably stop trying to rule the universe, but I guess that's Curly's doing."

This seemed to have hit conversation jackpot. Samson could almost feel the air thicken.

"You're familiar with the red lyrium?" Cain asked, while Brice dashed in front of them with his horse.

"You swear on your brothers he is, because he's the lyrium deprived baby. You didn't ever meet Ser Samson?" Brice inquired.

"No, though I might have crossed him in a hall patrol once." Cain remarked, peering at Samson like a value choice of wares.

Samson had to admit Cain was familiar in the same way a distant relative was, so vaguely it was virtually non-existent.

Varric was still recovering from the apparent hilarity of Brice's comment, and Samson, despite being insulted, cracked a smile. "You heard of me?"

Brice scratched some scars on his chin, "I thought most had."

Indeed. A portion of the Gallows had through his work on continuing Thrask's conspiracy against Meredith, but that was only a section, and Samson couldn't remember ever meeting this mage since he'd deliberately avoided mages as to not draw attention to himself.

"You recognized my name by word of mouth, suppose?" Samson assumed.

Brice grinned, though why, Samson had no idea, "Yeah, ordinary word of mouth. A friend who knew a friend who knew my sister who knew a friend…."

"That's three friends." Varric remarked, cackling at the notion of it, "And a family tie which couldn't have been awful? Were you the popular, charming mage to swoon all the ladies?"

"Women? No… my only girlfriend didn't pass her Harrowing, which put me off Circle relationships for life." Brice said, "I'm about as popular as brother is."

Cain smiled shrewdly at this, able to tell from this brief amount of conversation that Samson had been popular for unconventional reasons.

"You were interested in the red lyrium, Comatose?" Varric said.

Cain didn't even blink at the comment.

"That's you, Ser Cain," Samson remarked, nudging Cain from beside him.

The Templar moved his arm away. "After all the trouble with the Knight Commander the challenge is not to be interested."

It was like a race to get a word in. Samson wanted to ask how intrigued Cain really was, but Varric won this round. "Andraste's ass, it's like I can't get away from talking about it. Raleigh here drinks the messed up shit. He's been trying to live without it for a couple of days. Is it obvious?"

Brice buried his face in his robes. Maybe he was trying not to cry from laughing, but Cain didn't hesitate in the response.

"Very." He addressed Varric next, "But I don't get it… out of all the nicknames in the Frostbacks why Comatose?"

"You look like you've been missing sleep." Varric remarked, and Samson had to admit it was true. The Templar had some bags under his eyes and squinted occasionally from the sunlight.

Cain appeared mildly irked. "I do, though last night the Commander kept all of Haven from a second of sleep."

Brice recovered from whatever reaction he'd had, and pointed at Samson. "His fault."

Cain looked as shocked as it was possible for a sleep deprived person to be, "That was from you? The Commander was yelling at _you_?"

"At me." Varric corrected, "But about our glowing green Raleigh. That isn't the sort of detail you want to get mixed up in. And yeah, he hurt my ears the worse out of everybody."

Samson watched bewildered his team, unsure how he was going to keep the topic of conversation off himself, but Varric's didn't want to talk about the previous night anymore.

"Did you know the Commander well, Cain?" Samson asked.

"He was Knight Captain when I joined in 9:34." The Templar explained, "I didn't think we were that close, but everybody else seemed to think so. He's allowing me observe his drills with the goal to eventually take over, with some others, in case he uh… becomes _overworked_."

The last word was said with a different tone to the rest, though Samson pinned it down to Cain being sleep deprived.

"Well…" he deliberated, wondering if this familiarity was part the reason Cullen had chosen Cain, "Did you get more than orders from him in the prison?"

"On occasion," Cain replied, "We talked here and there at mealtimes. I don't think that is indicative of friendship, but leaving acquaintance."

"Yeah, it is." Samson said bluntly, finding he felt a twinge bit jealous of Cain, but also didn't admire him simultaneously. "If you eat with him, it's pretty clear you're in his inner Circle."

"More like the third Circle from the center." Varric corrected, which was probably true. It was quite easy to talk to the Commander these days. In the Circle it would have been different though.

Cain considered this idea with a level head, "The third Circle out of how many?"

"Two." Samson answered, to insult Cain, at the same time Varric said, "Six or seven," to compliment him.

Cain was already somewhat non-expressive, though he brooded in response. Maybe he thought the conversation had turned the corner into moronic and no longer saw the benefit of answering, or he might have been regretting putting his name down on Josephine's list, wanted to go back to sleep, or some mixture of all three.

Brice levitated the book magically from Samson's free hand, "What's the prissy novel, brother?"

Before Samson or Varric could answer, which was an achievement all on its own, there was a call from one of the scouts up ahead, "Incline at three o'clock and mercenary camps. We're going around, but we'll have to gallop. Everybody quiet down!"

Brice tucked the novel away, pretending nothing had happened.

"You'll find out later when we make camp, Team Kirkwall." Samson replied with a smile.

Despite being the most sleep deprived, Cain took the lead, mostly because everybody else was a second slower.

As they careened toward more looming mountains, but thankfully green ones, Samson was curious of what brought Brice and Cain to his team. If the Herald had such a reputation for being an intolerable, lying, mischief maker, how come Josephine had managed to procure a list at all? Why hadn't it been empty?

At least, he decided, that conversation might wait until later as well.

* * *

"Is it so testing that you lower the volume?" Cassandra poked her head into their tent, where Team Kirkwall were giggling. They were lying on the ground haphazardly as though drunk, their boots scattered around like their armour, all in undergarments and heavy blankets. A lantern was balancing lopsided on the uneven center. Every few minutes someone had to save it from toppling over. A novel lay open from between Brice's fingers, the evidence of their silliness. They had been taking in turns reading out passages with over exaggerated portrayals of the characters.

Samson smirked at her, "Seeker, the tent likes being away from you too."

"We can hear everything." Cassandra muttered, not amused in the slightest, "each profane word."

Brice returned Varric the book like it was a disease.

"Want a copy, Seeker?" Varric asked, holding it up. "It's the first in the series, so it holds the record for the most times where I really can't write."

"Is it like _all_ the parts you were reading?" Cassandra demanded.

"Only the chapters in the middle.' Samson assured her.

He wished the Seeker would leave soon. The cold night air was billowing inside from the flap.

"It is not as hideous as their voices, Seeker Pentaghast." Cain explained.

Samson liked Cain. He gave off the impression of being principled when he could be a bit of a smart ass too. Like now.

"How about you read, Cain?" Brice suggested.

"I enjoy watching the Seeker scold you more." He said, with a grin.

Cassandra frowned, "Perhaps I would like a copy."

"Read it with us!" Brice urged.

"No, I'd prefer to read it right now." Cassandra said. In a harsh quickened motion she seized it from Varric's willing grasp.

"Enjoy it, Seeker." Varric said.

The men were left to lie down in the tent, the interior much quieter.

"Do you think she'll actually read it?" Brice hissed.

"Come now, she'll read the blurb on the back." Cain assured them, barely paying attention.

They fell silent, comforted only by the crackling of a fire from outside and the much quieter voices from other tents. They knew the solemn truth. The reality was the book had been banned. They had to find another way to entertain themselves.

"Why'd you two want to travel with me, anyhow?" Samson asked, "I got a book confiscated."

"Hey, it was the good sort of confiscated." Varric said, "Smokey and Comatose, why did you join us?"

"It would be a foolish opportunity to throw away." Cain answered, more dutifully now.

"Brice, brother?" Samson inquired, pleased that Cain didn't seem to be prejudice toward him.

"Curiosity," Brice said. Avoiding their eyes, he rolled onto his back. "I'd heard a lot about you. I wanted to see what the big deal was."

Samson sighed. The Gallows and gossiping was synonymous. "Were any of the rumours true or pleasant?"

"The bad ones were so great." Brice said with a wide grin, "Because I heard the good ones first from someone I trust a little bit more than complete strangers."

"From who?" Samson thought, wondering if Brice had met some of his loyal followers.

"You don't know them." Brice said.

"Come on Smokey, you've got to give Raleigh more information than that." Varric said, "How else will he conjure wonderful mental pictures?"

Brice sounded like he snickered, "I think it was a she."

"Was she a mage like yourself, Enchanter Brice?" Cain said, and then when the mage didn't answer, "Did you think of her as pleasant?"

"Ewww, I'd never say that about my sister!" Brice spat, as though regressing back to childhood.

With this comment out it seemed like the previous answers had been a means to conceal information, but the others in the tent had another agenda. Before Samson could share his thoughts the others jumped in.

"I hope for your sake your sister is still alive." Cain said tautly. It was obvious something deeply bothered him about the subject.

"I'm going to agree with Comatose here." Varric said, "My brother went crazy from being around red lyrium too long, and a friend convinced me to let him have the nicer way out. The Champion of Kirkwall as you might have heard… Bartrand and I definitely didn't like each other much, but that aside I wouldn't recommend being an outright bastard."

Samson was shocked to hear Varric had ended his brother's life rather than the red having killed him, but it was disheartening all the same. "Shit. Sorry, mate."

The dwarf's hatred for red was somewhat more justified now, but Samson also knew his reaction to the red _wasn't_ the same as Bartrand. Varric had even admitted it.

"Same." Cain said, "I'm the only Wygard left. What Orleasians didn't take, the Mage-Templar uprising did. And you, Ser Samson?"

The Red Templar wanted to say he never felt like he had a family in the first place, and his brother and sister Templars were his surrogate, but it didn't seem like a good moment to mention it. "I'm as lonesome as the rest of you. Only child." He said, thinking of adding, _and one was more than enough for 'em._

Brice looked frustrated, "It's not as simple as just ignoring all the bad times."

"Is your sister really that nasty?" Varric asked, "I get holding a grudge but… Is it really worth it? Did she put ink in your hair or spit in your breakfast?"

"She used to hardly talk to me." Brice muttered, "She was so immature and stupid. She can be really passive aggressive. She's the only girl in my family, so she got most of the attention. Yeah, I know I'm jealous of that. I envy her a lot. I'm the pitiful result of my parents drunken absent mindedness. I think my magic is a curse for their stupidity when I was conceived, some punishment for me. Anyway we've made up since and we write letters sometimes, but that doesn't erase the past. Enough time hasn't gone by for me to consider her a genuinely nice person."

"The younger brother of the Champion of Kirkwall was much the same, so I heard." Varric said thoughtfully, "The important thing is you're putting the past behind you. Did you ever meet Ser Carver Hawke?"

Cain looked unforgiving, "Once I did he didn't leave me alone."

"I spoke to him one time and he told me to 'shove off'." Brice said.

"He worse than me then?" Samson wondered.

Cain and Brice looked at each other, actually confused.

"Difficult question, Raleigh!" Varric chortled, jovial, "We might want to quiet before the Seeker comes bother us again."

"Who will take first watch?" Cain asked, but Brice rose to his feet and that was as much answer as anybody needed.


	7. Hinterlands I

The Hinterlands held a likeness the mountain ranges outside Kirkwall, only twenty times the land mass. Samson became extremely familiar with Sundermount's inclines from smuggling mages out of the city. He knew which tree root or splay of moss indicated his location and where the Dalish camps stood. His nostrils developed a partiality for the damp earth, streams of glittering beetles and soft grass. Bracing nature meant freedom and justice for youthful mages, whether it the across the wan sands of the Wounded Coast or barren gravel.

More than the clean air he enjoyed the company of the mage children. He sometimes expressed his dismays of lyrium imprisonment in an undertone if it was quiet enough. The mages, too young to hold abstract thought, were unabashedly but non-judgmentally curious.

Samson didn't mind trying to educate kids about the stuff. They didn't see it in the context of a man's life. They absorbed whatever he said it was. His go-to explanation was it was a potion he had used for years and now his body didn't like it when he tried to stop using it. He complained that the cravings were uncomfortable and made him feel like the Maker was trying to crush him.

Their names eluded him except for this boy. Their boots had been sloshing against the sodden grass and mud, moonlight lightly illuminating the path. Samson only used the lantern once he couldn't determine where he was.

Jack held his stuffed puppy to his chest. "Is lyrium like a lightning storm?"

"Why would it be like that?" Samson questioned. He crouched down to piggy back Jack, who happily obliged. Resuming his march, he exhaled deeper. Now their conversation was less likely to be overheard.

Jack wrapped his arms around Samson's chest. "It's bright and scary. The lightning maybe will hit you. No one knows. I'd wanted to hide at home until the rain stops."

"Kind of," Samson said, not bothering to correct the incorrect English, "If the storm clouds never cleared out."

The boy rested his head on the smuggler's shoulder. He went quiet until they reached a turn in the grueling climb. Samson didn't mind. It kept him warm.

"Then why are you outside?"

Samson, to his bewilderment, had to ponder for a moment. An instance turned into half a minute. The answer arrived at the next landmark. "Don't want others to feel like they can't go where they like."

When the hikes invoked this calm returning to urban life lost its meaning.

* * *

The Hinterlands was not where Samson hoped any of the mages he'd smuggled out of Kirkwall were. Templars and mages were slaughtering each other under the dry afternoon heat, their minds untouchable fires. It sustained all the calamity of the Right of Annulment in the Gallows years before. As he crossed decaying rib cages separated from their guts, his memory played games with him.

_Mages can't be trusted._

Meredith's message was an ever lingering clarity from the Gallows. As he averted his eyes from maggots scavenging rancid entrails it echoed.

_MAGES can never be trusted._

He was finally behaving like she did, what he had striven to avoid for the rest of his days. But it wasn't only them. The Templars had lost their senses too. The fools were destroying more than they could save. What fucking twats.

As he focused on being more monstrous than either of them, he pushed away his values. They might have been a decent sort. Mages deserved as much of a chance as anyone else, but not ones that resorted to violence so needlessly.

He pretended they'd all been possessed. It was only lots of Harrowings. No Maker would save them. There was no Maker to speak for them. The smuggler couldn't save these types.

Their heartbeats ceased through a Holy Smite and the blade of his sword.

The scent of blood used to make him woozy. Not anymore.

He ended these fights more annoyed than when he'd started. Their rage was misdirected. The true enemy was the Chantry, not each other.

Mother Giselle had _almost_ implied her people were rubbish, but not quite. It was day three and he longed to lock himself up in that Haven cottage and pretend he didn't have to leave ever again. Team Kirkwall were fun, but he was an abnormality. Samson got blocked in conversations when his thoughts lead to Corypheus or the threatening fog of the past, so he remained silent and became fourth wheeled in the group.

That was, until a song slithered into his marrow and head.

' _Lacrimosa dies illa, Qua resurget ex favilla_ ' (*That day is one of weeping, on which shall rise again from the ashes)

It was the immeasurable call of the red. Samson stopped in his tracks, making the rest of Team Kirkwall nearly bump into him.

"Yes, we _are_ going to keep stepping on your boots if you keep staring at your mark!" Brice blurted out.

Samson ignored the comment and breathed through his nose. Even in this heavily shaded mass of pines, he could _smell_ it.

"Can you hear it, brothers?" he inquired.

They stopped speaking abruptly.

"Are we meant to be able to hear something?" Brice wondered.

"Red lyrium." Samson felt like he was high just saying the word, "Can't be far."

He felt more calm and peaceful than he had since being thrown into the Inquisition. It was the confidence of knowing he would be his decent, sane self soon. It was the tune of glory.

In his days of withdrawal the General found the song disturbing and irritating. It was a reminder of his prison and downfall. Now he welcomed its embrace. It was his drum roll to liberty. The tune was a signal to soak in its wonder.

' _Confutatis maledictis flammis acribus addictis, Voca me cum benedictus_.' (*When the damned are confounded and consigned to keen flames, call me with the blessed.)

Varric had Bianca at the ready. "How can you even hear it this far away? Bartrand had to be… nearly right against it."

"It is disconcerting." Cain gave a curt nod in agreement, "I don't trust the red lyrium. It is clearly powerful and extremely dangerous."

 _You know what's dangerous!?_ Samson wanted to scream at Cain, _Letting me be without it, you fucker!_

The Red Templar breathed steadily. This lad only didn't understand. Samson hadn't had the chance to privately converse with Cain about the red lyrium yet.

"We can investigate," Varric said slowly, "but the moment boulders try to crush our skulls we destroy it and run in the opposite direction."

"That is fair." Cain said.

Samson suppressed his annoyance at Varric for being rational. They walked cautiously through the many trees. There were smears of blood against the ground and birds chewed at the throat, jaws and wounds of Templars up ahead.

"Look who had our same idea." Cain remarked, walking faster so he wouldn't have to cover his nose. Brice appeared distracted by something else.

To their right lay a frozen pond. The thin layer of frost had many cracks, but a chill swept the clearing. Burned braches of trees were floating on its surface. The music resounded from beyond it. On the other side was an opening between two granite pillars.

The red was waiting for him in there.

They went around the ice. From a glance, the cavern appeared empty only lit by the shatters of red lyrium on the ground and sprouting from the walls.

"Why's the red lyrium the Maker's blessing anyway?" Brice asked.

"Don't talk to him about that, Smokey." Varric said.

Cain raised a hand suddenly, and Samson was too busy enjoying the song to notice. There was a rumbling and rattling of armour from behind them. They turned as six Templars slowed from their hurried steps, their appearances concealed by helmets.

"Hey!" Samson barked, automatically reverting back into General mode. "What you doing following us, lads? Get back to your tents."

"We split up to find the demon-carrier's base." Answered the man in front

"A brother and sister didn't come back." said a woman from the back, "And…" her tone darkened. "Looks like mages have been here."

Brice moved his staff, possibly behind him to hide it.

"We don't start fights with mages." Samson said calmly, trying to remember he wasn't the boss. "Don't think they're here. You probably missed 'em."

From above them one branch on the burned trees was still alight. It cracked.

"Mage sympathizers!" shouted a Templar from the back.

"Maybe unlike you charming folk don't like death, blood and destruction." Varric raised Bianca as a means of ceasefire. "How about we all step _away_ from the tree about to squash us flat, think of an alternative plan and pay no mind to each other's business?"

"I concur with Varric." Cain said.

The Templar in the front had spotted Brice hiding behind them. He withdrew his sword.

"We can't let mage sympathizers go." He said. Like it was a secret phrase, the remaining five Templars prepped their weapons in unison, "If you help our foes, you are as filthy and scheming as they are."

Samson was cranky being so close to his lyrium and yet so far away, and having wrongly believed that Thedas was above mage sympathizer bullshit.

"Go ahead then! Piss off!" he shouted. "We don't want you here!"

Samson thought he saw one of the Templar's face crinkle into a smile behind the visor.

"Neither do we."

They stormed to strike.

Samson's first impulse was to use a paralysing spell, but nothing happened. 'Fucking blue lyrium' he cursed under his breath.

There was a scrambling of feet from behind. A sudden whoosh made Samson back away. The Templars underneath lunged in multiple directions like a web seconds before their hair set alight by the tumbling mass of flame, an accumulation of scorched leaves and embers The red quickly died in the damp grass but the trees nearest them went up in a ferocious wall of orange, weakening its hold to the ground.

Samson span around. Their enemies were scattered. Brice was showing three Templars exactly why mages shouldn't be messed with, surrounding them in a cage of fire.

"Brice, brother!" Samson shouted, as one of the Templar attackers dispelled Brice's magic with the wave of his hand.

Forced to retreat, the mage ran out of range and called over his shoulder, "Advice?!"

Samson turned back and did a purging spell on two of the Templars heading for Cain. It was shaky and didn't hit with the force it was meant to.

In frustration the man cursed the blue lyrium once again.

"Guard us!" Samson instructed. He held up his shield as one Templar aimed for his arms. The clang was as deafening as the yelps of 'My fucking hands!' in the distance. Swiftly Samson stepped out of the path of an oncoming Holy Smite. By the grunt sounding upon her wasted efforts, she was female.

"Cain, cover me!"

He yelled it all, not knowing how far away his comrades were.

"Loudmouth… stop the blockheads from gettin' us!"

He didn't quite manage to halt the spell so staggered. He wasn't looking in the right direction, but judging by the clash of a swords and, "Aye, Ser Samson!" Cain had followed the instruction.  
Two Templars approached.

In the heat of the fray Samson didn't have time to consider his target, so he sliced his blade through the air finding the female Templar's exposed side. Blood dripped from the sword as he pulled it free. She crumpled to the ground. She was near death, and no longer a threat.

The two rogues went around but a stream of fire narrowly missed them. An arrow came whooshing past and hit one. Samson was pushed backwards by a blast of silver energy. Holding up his guard to stay steady, Cain rammed his shield into the left Templar and pushed the body into the one with an arrow sticking out of it.

There was one and a barely conscious Templar remaining in their line of vision. Meaning there were another three more. They were now equal in number, but Samson knew he could overtake them in skill if he'd had his red lyrium.

'Useless blue shit!'

The constant clink, clink, clink of arrow's soaring out of Bianca and hitting armour was not reassuring. From the scraping sounds, most of them were deflected by bursts of silver light or shields.

Samson raised his sword to halt an oncoming spell. Not confident with the original Templar spells, the General tried not to use them. Neither it seemed did Cain.

The man backtracked and plunged his sword through the back of the one in front of Samson. Not hesitating from the terror of a sword sticking out a chest, Samson sliced the man's throat. The fireball that followed engulfed the body on the ground.

Cain and Samson approached the remaining two. Brice had created swirling ribbons of fire around himself, almost playing catch with a fireball and the Templar's power.

 _If only I had my Red Templars,_ Samson thought.

Irked at the distance between himself and the last remaining Templars, by habit he focused. He tried to use a paralysing spell again. He only managed to temporarily stun himself from the surprising burst of green light that exploded from his palm and refracted painfully on the surrounding metal.

There was no time to waste. He used the light as a means to harm the Templars while they were distracted. It was an easy diversion.

The closest attacker's legs were exposed. Samson stuck. It hit, but the shield pushed it away before it could sever arteries. That was no trouble. He could duel this bloke for a good while still. Also, he wasn't alone.

As Cain swung for one of the Templar's legs, there were clunks of boots from the granite pillars.

'FOR THE HERALD OF ANDRASTE!" a woman shouted.

Samson was so shocked he had to talk to himself out loud to prepare to keep fighting. He _knew_ her voice.

There was too much chaos to think on the name. Parrying the Templar's blade away he cleaved through the enemy's gorget and wounded the nerve cluster. As Samson kicked the attacker to his knees and ignored the screams, he glanced over his shoulder. Two figures in dark Templar armour created a hole in the fire by a short spell and jumped into the fight. As the one in front sprinted he recognized the glint of red in her eyes behind the helmet. Could it…

The woman skidded to a stop near Cain. "Move!" she commanded.

The other Templar stood in line with the woman, not saying anything.

Varric, the only one not in hand to hand combat caught eyes with Samson. "Raleigh?"

"Do as she says!" Samson blurted out, hewing the man's pauldron as he tried to stand. "I recognize 'er."

Cain staggered his foe with a knock of his shield. "From where?!"

"The Gallows." Samson said. He gave an almighty swing at the exposed shreds of Templar neck, dislodging half the man's throat. The enemy fell, spluttering and incomprehensible.

"Step away, Comatose." Varric told Cain.

Brice shot a lick of flame to Cain to remind him. The Templar stepped back in impeccable formation.

There was no chance for the enemies to move. The woman yelled in exertion as she motioned like throwing a spear. A burst of red spread from her like a shock wave and hit the enemies like a gust of wind where they became immobile. It didn't mean much for the one Samson had taken down, but he appreciated it all the same.

Samson knew for sure. These were some of his red Templars.

"Gallows doesn't mean they won't try to kill you." Varric said, pulling his arrow back and aiming it at the last of the Templars.

'How can you even tell?" Brice remarked, focusing his wall of fire into a thick beam. "Thanks, lady!"

Samson turned to make the killing blow with Cain, though it seemed the two Red Templars were not going with withdraw. By the time Cain pierced his sword into the body, it was already dead and falling to the ground. The two Red Templars had pulled apart its neck vertebrae with a terrible crunch. It poked out through the back of the Templar's neck like it had been peeled away from the skeletal frame, red pooling around it. She shoved her sword through to separate it further, an unnecessary but gruesome finish.

He recognized the grunts as she cleaned her sword in the icy pond, and was fairly confident of who it was.

Samson wiped his blade on the grass. The noise lessened. The sound of pants remained as metal and teammates were brought to a standstill. Brice slowly cancelled out the fire and the hiss of steam filled the air. There were three bodies closest to themselves, Varric and Brice. The other three were closer to the blackened tree, as lurid as any of the other bodies they'd passed on the way.

"Thanks for the help…" Varric said, attaching Bianca back out of his hands. "I'm hoping that wasn't a warm up for what you're about to do to us?"

"We're not the biggest on spearing guts." Brice explained.

Cain glared, appearing guarded and distrusting.

The woman Templar straightened up, looked at the others surrounding Samson and merely nodded. "We had allied ourselves with those Templars until we heard they hated mages." She said, and the General was nearly exactly certain who it was, "We came here on our own, asked the mages to depart to where they could not be found, and made camp here."

Samson peered to Brice who brushed some blood from his robes.

"Identify yourself." Cain said. He still had his sword out.

The woman pulled off her helmet with some effort and the Herald had his guesses confirmed. This was one of his _first_ Red Templars. A woman named Susanne Acantha. Her armor shone gloriously in the afterglow of flames and Samson was so overwhelmed with pleasure to see one of his own he almost went weak in the knees. Two members of his surrogate family had returned!

Fuck, she didn't look that different from the last he saw her, or even three years ago. She still looked like a thief, but maybe something worse, with the alertness an eagle. Her features were stern. Her eyes were red but that was the only new feature. Her skin hadn't turned to chalk, only discoloured In spots from its olive sheen. While in the Gallows her dark hair was shaven on one side. Here, she merely kept that side roughly cut short. "I am an ally of _yours_ , Ser Samson." she said with a radiate coolness. "Are these accomplices trustworthy?"

"Very much so, Ser Susanne." Samson said. He hoped she wouldn't slip and call him General anytime soon.

"It is assuring to have come across you."

"Whoa, it's a Tranquil!" Brice sounded amazed, "He's definitely from the Gallows. I remember him."

Samson, startled, turned to the other Red Templar, only to find it wasn't one. The armour was of a Templar, but it was a mage wearing it, one with a sunburst red mark on his forehead.

"A pleasure to meet you, Enchanter Brice," Maddox said in monotone.

Cain put his weapon away with a shrewd chuckle. "That's something I didn't think I'd ever see."

Samson cleared his throat. "Here are two of my old Gallows friends. Susanne and Maddox."

"So uh…" Varric hesitated, "I'm not going to lie. I don't have the slightest idea how fate pulled you three together."

"Word of mouth." Samson said. He refused to elaborate any further, though it was true.

Stepping over the bodies, Cain and Brice tried to pick out coin and other materials, like lyrium where they found it.

"Birdy." Varric said in an undertone, "Do you take the red shit too?"

The eyes were too freaking obvious.

Ser Susanne looked to Samson who said. "She does. But neither of us like talkin' about it."

"I didn't say you had to." Varric defended himself quickly. No one wanted a repeat of what happened to Samson. The Red Templar General had to admit this was an unexpected bonus of the whatever-it-was happening in the first place.

"We travelled as rogue Templars for a bit once the Order went to the dogs." Samson half lied, "tried to stay out of everyone's way and get by."

'Get by' actually meant 'raising an army', but his allies weren't any the wiser. As relieved as he felt and as much as he enjoyed making small talk with Maddox and Ser Susanne, he knew they wouldn't be able to talk about anything truly interesting until the rest of Team Kirkwall dissipated.

"Ser Samson," Susanne said, "Maddox and I were staying near the red lyrium. We hoped you would come, and we were correct. Come."

It seemed everyone was trying to grab Samson's attention. Cain passed Samson a note.

"What's this?" he said.

"Read it and then you'll know." Cain replied.

By the blood on Comatose's fingers and the paper, it was from one of the bodies.

Samson did read it. The writing was slanted and hard to read, but its content was disgusting.

" _Mage sympathizers have lain with demons…"_ he recounted aloud, _"and can breed only abominations, and they must be slain as such."_ He let his arms fall in rage. _"_ Piss on this shit. Did Meredith come back from the dead?"

"Her crummy attitude did." Brice said.

"What cruelty." Susanne said slowly, "What of the Templar sympathizers? What of them?"

"There are few in these times." Maddox said, blankly.

No one knew how to answer the unusual commentary. Or perhaps they were too exhausted.

Samson peered from member to member of Team Kirkwall. Now that they were a crowd of six, they would attract far more attention. "After we scrape out the lyrium, we return to the camp. Agreed?"

* * *

The cavern didn't only have red lyrium. It was spacious and had eerie statues where the pillars stood. A single tent lay in a far corner though there was no other light source.

Maddox and Susanne kept to themselves on the way inside.

Brice seemed unnerved. "Your friends are stranger than my mum trying to dance."

"They're true friends," Samson said, "cause they know that how freakish we are don't matter."

"I hate being here already." Varric said, looking up at the wall of jagged lyrium. "I don't know how you don't want to kill yourself just by looking at it. I can hear it singing and it isn't a happy tune."

The dwarf and Brice kept the furthest away, while Cain took some intrigued though cautious steps toward it. Maddox and Susanne stood in front; lured like mosquitos to light.

"You got some?" Samson hissed in Susanne's ear.

She gave a very small nod. Samson didn't show any emotion, but he knew Susanne understood. She'd made her General a very satisfied man.

"Hey, Loudmouth!" Samson called, "I've been a tolerable Herald of Andraste here right?"

"Your talk with Mother Giselle didn't end in an explosion or an argument." Varric enumerated, "We've got some food for the villagers and you closed four rifts. There's still a lot more to do before we head back but… Yeah, I think that's pretty good."

Brice appeared to panic, "You can't just _give_ it to him!"

"Actually, I have a miniscule amount of authority here, Smokey." Varric said, "Ruffles said I can keep a look over Raleigh's shoulder when it comes to his creepy indulgences."

"It is like smoke." Cain said, in a strange trance like Susanne. "Breathe in too much and it could be the last."

"Basically." Varric agreed. He stopped being so nice. "Look, Raleigh, if you're going to take some, we need a way to carry it around without it making us all batshit crazy."

"That's fine, Loudmouth." Samson said with a smile, "Susanne and Maddox can take care of that."

The Red Templar picked up some carry bags from the small tent. "How much would you like, Ser Samson?"

"Enough to fill the bag." Samson said, "And we'll destroy the rest."

"I can live with that." Varric said, with a heavy exhalation.

Samson felt very happy. He'd stayed on Loudmouths' good side. He wouldn't be in withdrawal for much longer… all he had to do was be well behaved until returning to Haven and then Susanne could give him enough Red to make him feel like a God.

* * *

It was a decent walk back to camp, but Samson was entertained plenty by the song. Susanne hummed it with him, although they got dirty looks from Cain. He looked seconds away from hitting them over the head with the pommel of his sword, so he spoke to Brice instead.

Once they were safely resting in the tent Maddox approached Samson. He crawled to his knees mechanically like the joints didn't function properly.

"Ser Susanne wishes to speak to you." he droned. He stood to his feet, assuming correctly what Samson's response would be. "We can find a quiet place."

Samson told Varric he was going to have a chat with his friends so they head out to the abandoned fortress nearby. It was thankfully conflict-free on the way as it was technically Inquisition territory now. He was used to Maddox wearing a smithing apron so it was weird to see him otherwise.

"The Venatori are here in the Hinterlands." Maddox said. "Gereon Alexius is in the Redcliffe village." "What are they here for?" Samson demanded.

"I have no knowledge of why." Maddox said, "Though the Elder One has other plans now and the Venatori are likely part of that."

Samson hesitated, unsure he'd heard correctly."The Venatori do their shit, we do ours. What do you mean the _plan_ has changed?"

"Susanne will explain." Maddox said, "In short, since your departure the allegiance has been disrupted. I would like to clarify what you would like me to do with this."

Before Samson could wonder what he was talking about the mage removed two pieces of what was nothing less than his sword, Certainty.

The General knew he would feel immense gratitude if his head wasn't broken, but he could still let the Tranquil understand his appreciation.

"You found some!" Samson said, having almost forgotten about it. "Good on you, Maddox."

"I apologize that I could not retrieve all the pieces." Maddox said. Despite the regret in the words he was expressionless. "I understood that you would want all it back, but there was chaos after the Conclave and the Temple is heavily guarded now. I only had an opportunity to grab these."

"Don't matter." Samson said, giving the mage an affectionate shake on the shoulder, "I'm pleased you were thinking of me. What do you think you may be able to do with them?"

"There are a few choices." Maddox said slowly, "With additional red lyrium I can forge a new sword like Certainty, or I could continue to design the red lyrium armour I told you about."

Samson paused. He would love to have that armor and a new sword, but Varric was strict on his red lyrium consumption. It might create a riot. If he could leave the Inquisition and join Corypheus again this wouldn't be a problem. It was best to talk to Susanne first to get a greater understanding of what was happening.

"I think a new sword would be great, Maddox." Samson said, "But while I'm here I need to try being civil and cooperate. Could you ask Varric if I can? If not he can find you some stuff the Inquisition needs forging, but don't chuck away Certainty's pieces yet. There may be a use for them. And remember we need to keep the Red Templars secret."  
"I am aware." Maddox said dully, "I understand. I hope the talk with Susanne goes well."

They'd reached the fortress. Samson nodded, "I too."

He climbed up the five stairs where Susanne was leaning against a wall, sipping at red lyrium. The granite blocked a lot of the sun and was pleasantly cool after the tension of combat. Her gaze travelled beyond the wall like a crow about to take flight.

"Hey, Ser Susanne." He said, "I appreciate your efforts in locating me. So what's this about the rules being changed?"

"I had to come find you. The Eld…. Our master - he is livid and betrayed." Susanne peered at him straight on, "He doesn't want you back. He has found another Knight Commander, and…"

"What?" Samson's spirits fell. That explanation made it sound like he'd done something _wrong_. "Why by the Black City would…?"

Susanne drank more of her red lyrium, and Samson was temporarily hypnotized by it. She kept looking straight ahead and handed Samson her vial. "His ritual at the Conclave was interrupted by _you_. That is why you have that mark on your hand. It was master's. He wants it back."

Samson, who generally had a hate relationship with the mark, was suddenly defensive of it, "He'll have to come get it."

Why did the man care? It gave him all the wrong kinds of attention. The green pest made him co-exist with people who didn't deserve it. It put him on the enemy's side.

More importantly, why would he have interrupted the ritual, how and why? It could have been an accident. It might have been some other moron's fault.

Since Susanne hadn't answered he added, "Am I really the blockhead who's done wrong?"

Susanne nodded. "Master is never wrong. You know his wisdom."

"Yeah, but…" he was in denial. How could this have happened? "I don't remember any of the Conclave. I don't see why I should be held accountable."

This was the only excuse he could muster. The situation was so _unfair_.

"A drunk is still accountable for his actions." Susanne said simply, finally looking at him. She didn't look human. She was a creature, a whole other species of human. Like Faith had been.

"I wasn't drunk." Samson said.

The woman pointed to the bottle of red lyrium, asking another question.

"No." Samson said immediately. Why did everyone immediately blame the red for everything? He paused and screwed up his face. "How far is the camp? We can leave right now. I want to talk to Master."

If Susanne was right it meant that Samson was back where he started in Kirkwall, aimlessly continuing his routine of trying to survive and help some poor mages. Corypheus was the only reason anything useful had come of his life after the Chantry exploded. The thought of returning to a purposeless existence was terrifying.

"He wouldn't just chuck me. I trained you – he has MY Red Templars!"

Susanne whacked Samson's arm, like trying to wake him from dreaming. "I don't know where the Camp is, I was searching for you for five days… maybe more. It might be Thereinfal Redbout, but the plan has probably changed again since Maddox and myself departed."

"Did you run away without asking?"

"I asked." Susanne said, "Master said no. He had no want for fools in his plan, regardless of the reason. _Reprehensible immorality,_ he declared. _The plan continues."_ She gave a scarily good impression of Corypheus despite her gender and age. "He's trying to find you. He wants to take the mark, and he finds you more unforgivable with every day."

"That's more reason to abandon the Inquisition," Samson concluded, "I leave now, I have a better chance of being let back in."

"Master said no." Susanne repeated, "From what I overheard, and how the red repeated, master wishes to take the mark and destroy you. He _knows_ you are with the Inquisition."

Why did the answer always have to be no?

"But master's plan is still our release from this world." Samson said, and while it would sound like code to anybody else it was the summary of all his speeches which were five minutes longer, "If sacrificing me brings that outcome, then I've served my purpose. I can die in peace. We can be free in the New World. I should still go back, no matter what."

"Then why have you been delaying this long?" Susanne requested. Samson sculled his red lyrium – oh glory it felt good – and placed the glass back in the woman's long fingers.

She placed it to her satchel.

"I didn't know where to go." Samson said, "Since I didn't remember the Conclave. I had no weapon, probably would have been killed on the way there. I have this mark. I had a chance to meet my enemies."

"For enemies you behave fondly." Susanne remarked.

"Yeah, but…" Samson wasn't sure how to justify it, "I've been messing around with them. They're slowly… growing on me."

He felt uneasy to say it. His enemies were growing on him? What? He'd barely known them.

"The mark can do powerful shit, sister." Samson said, "Maybe I can be useful without master."

The woman looked suddenly confused, maybe even disappointed. "Is that why you followed him? To be useful?"

"Kind of." Samson admitted, "But it's more than that. You know it is."

"If you truly still felt loyalty, why did you interrupt the ritual?"

"I don't know why." Samson repeated, still not believing that was entirely the case. "Come on, Susanne, don't ask me why when my memory is shoddy. That's not fair."

Susanne frowned. Her hands clenched into fists and loosened. "Forgive me, Gen… _Ser_ Samson. I am… alarmed. When master said you were void, that all your hard work was one-use. I could conjure the fires of Andraste herself. I thought – _this_ is injustice! This isn't the way. I remember how you told me once; you drank the red for the purpose of leading and training us. If that's all gone, now he's thrown you away just like Meredith did! He's thrown _all_ of us away!"

Samson felt his jaw tense. That was… completely true! He still hated Meredith for doing what she did, even though she was no longer in the world.

"You're right, Susanne." He said hurriedly, "You're absolutely right, that's bullshit."

The woman's pupils suddenly fluctuated, like a strike of lightning had hit them. "It's a true horror. I joined because I trusted in _you_ , not master. He's a monster with his brain in the past, what does he know about the present? He didn't train us. He stayed in the shadows telling you what to do, but _you_ inspired us. I trusted _you_. I couldn't believe it either when he turned after the Conclave. I wanted to know why you stopped the plan. It is so bizarre to fathom the idea you don't know the answer to something. You radiated this conviction that you knew the answers to absolutely everything."

"I translated a lot of what master and the red told me." Samson pointed out, feeling embarrassed, "They have the smarts, not me."

"No, you were smart!" Susanne protested, "Not just anyone can train soldiers and look out for them at the same time. But you listened to what we wanted, you were our fellow brother, you didn't just order us around. This cursed turn is so!" she growled, "I want answers. What now? What happens to the Red Templars? The others didn't follow me out but I think they would if you rose up against master. The originals, _yours_ , say the word and they would join you. We can find them. We can rise against master."

Samson paused. The Inquisition didn't know about the Red Templars and they certainly didn't know about Corypheus. Or his master's ritual. The conversation wouldn't go down well at all… especially since he didn't know the full details of what happened. Getting that information was still important.

"I need to know what happened." He said, "I don't know where he is but if master's looking for me, even if he intends to end me, I can wait for it to happen. They call me the Herald of Andraste? I will live up to that title when master destroys what's left of me and claims the World as his own."

Susanne, surprisingly, glared at him. "That's… not the way. I don't want it. You deserve recognition for your effort, and he wants to take all the glory for himself. Master or no, that's not the way to treat soldiers!"

"Yeah." Samson paused. He had to agree, though it was so easy to fall into his self-destructive habits, "My glory and joy was with my brothers and sisters. Now they're gone. Waiting for master to kill me is no way to die. He wants me to help him? He does it the proper way, accepting I made a mistake and keep me as General. I know what I was. I was a pawn, and I don't mind being used because I believed in the common goal. But it's chess. You don't play without both teams armed. You don't start the game without pawns. They have a place too. He fucking well keeps it, because it was there from the start!"

He peered down at the glow of his left hand. Josephine and Cassandra said the Inquisition was formed to help a world gone mad. They were wrong, it had been crazy for years before, but they were seeking justice. They were looking out for their fellow soldiers and not tossing them around. Josephine thought he could do some use, and Leliana too, she thought he was okay. And they didn't believe in the Chantry anymore. Maybe he could still share his ideas here. With the War Council he could delegate tasks like he had with the Red Templars…

Was it really so ridiculous that the Red Templars loyalties could change? Would they be accepted by the Inquisition, even if they'd served the thing that had planned to destroy the Conclave? There was only one way to find out.

"I need to think on it a bit, sister." Samson said, "I don't know these enemies of mine well enough yet. Some are more open about the red than others. It is probably better I explain about master before he finds me, but I don't know when that is. I can think of maybe 3 here that might listen, and they have big titles, sister. If they accept it, they will want to help. I'll see what I can do."

"I can help?" Susanne suggested, "If you say screw master, I'm with you. He can burn in the Deep Roads and melt!"

Samson made a 'hmmm' of pensive thought. This new plan seemed like it might actually get somewhere decent. If he could welcome his Red Templars into the Inquisition, his master was going to have a hard time fighting him. It might take time though as it had to be planned carefully.

"No matter which way I look at it, Red Templars won't be able to do much good on the blue, it'll just make them sick." Samson said, "It's simple. We make our own red. We need to supply it, we need lots of it. Depending on how the Inquisition goes…" he paused, "I know it's cracked but we might not need the fucking drink anymore if we can step on Master. There are lots of means to achieve the similar ends. The Chantry is the one with the problem. That hasn't changed. Master uncovered the lies of their words. But the Chant is there to inspire. The Chantry is there to direct people. They do different things. And it went wrong somewhere. Master has his way, I don't think it's wrong, but throwing away people IS wrong. That is no better than the Chantry. I don't want the Maker of the New World to be some _corrupt_ Old God. I don't care how much talk of glory he can spit out! If he throws me away, he'd do the same to anyone."

Susan smiled. "I am loyal to you. Maddox said he observed how they made it in Therinfal Redoubt. He read books on making lyrium in the Gallows. He said he would help if we need it."

Samson was reminded again that Maddox was an incredible mage. He felt almost elated. "Brilliant. I'll talk to Maddox about it." he tried to think quickly on what he should do next, and thankfully the red made this easier. "Before I talk about any of my Templars, I can ask Varric about supplying the red for yourself and any others we find. Might not work but I won't let you without it, sister."

Fantastic, they had a half formed plan. They had _enough_ of a plan that they knew what to do next. Samson felt relieved. What started out as a terrible conversation had ended reasonably.

Maybe the Venatori could offer clues about what was happening with Corypheus.

"Would you like to go visit Redcliffe Village with me, sister?" Samson inquired. "I reckon we're better off knowing what they're up to, but we'd have to go ourselves."

Susanne nodded, "I was going to suggest the very same."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Alexa in the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers Group for beta-ing and helping me with the fight scene. I took your feedback into account and kept some of the implementations you suggested - thanks so much! She writes some interesting fics. Some include the Reader and one is about a painter for the Inquisition! I'd recommend her work if you're looking for something different. http://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexasnow/pseuds/Alexasnow
> 
> The character 'Susanne', or more the name, was adapted from the canon Samson short story called "Paper and Steel" by Joanna Berry. Joanna, if by some reason you find this, I hope you don't mind me bringing the character to life. http://blog.bioware.com/2015/04/30/short-story-paper-steel/
> 
> Cain was borrowed with permission from SteveGarbage's "Red Fallen Sun"... amazing OC driven fic. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11038423/1/Red-Fallen-Sun
> 
> Thanks to JayRain for brainstorming ideas with me about this chapter. Her Quizzie Theodane Trevelyan/Dorian fics are fantastic. https://www.fanfiction.net/u/337275/JayRain
> 
> I also appreciate the DA Fanfiction Writer's Group in general for the discussion on how to plan Inquisitor fics.
> 
> The lyrics mentioned are excerpts from Mozart's Requiem - specifically Lacrimosa and Confutatis. They are absolutely beautiful and haunting pieces. I can only associate them with Red Templars now. Translations were not mine.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know your thoughts, but I prefer constructive criticism and not bashing.


	8. Hinterlands II

The dwarf was found stretching his arms outside their tent, having already tended to the damage of his crossbow. The rest of Team Kirkwall were drinking water or savouring shade from the cluster of trees surrounding them. Here, where the sounds of screams were absent, a bird cawed as it flew overhead, and the knowingness that Samson was no longer alone, the Hinterlands were refreshingly soothing.

"Let me see I haven't heard wrong." Varric said slowly. "You want to go to Redcliffe village with Birdy and Dreamer because you've got a lead of some kind?"

"Yeah." Samson said. "We shouldn't be gone more than a few hours, but if we are not back by nightfall maybe something bad happened."

"I'll keep it in the back of my head, but I'd describe Team Kirkwall as self-sustaining." Varric ventured thoughtfully, "I hope for your sake as well as mine that isn't the sort of lead where I'll find your head decapitated in a field?"

"It's not easy to decapitate me." Samson assured him, "For one thing, you're too short to reach my shoulders."

"So long as your leads are as short and talkative as I am, you can joke your way out of it." Varric gave an appreciative grin. "Yeah, go and make yourself properly useful. Before it slips too far," he lowered his voice. "Dreamer said you wanted a sword made out of the red shit like the one Meredith had. I have way too many questions. I probably shouldn't ask half of them, but… here, what makes it better than a normal sword?"

"I thought you'd figure it out already, Loudmouth," Samson said. His gaze was inimical in an attempt to read Varric and steel his own reaction simultaneously, "For the electricity and fire."

"Yeah," Varric's eyes were wide and bright with worry, but he veered away from that response. "Anyway," he pat Bianca, "Anyone around you will hear it fucking singing. I get that it's kind of impressive to make things catch fire, come to life and try to mimic some Dragon, but… isn't that also a bad idea? You know how messed up Meredith got with that logic."

Samson hesitated. Would benefit him to mention the truth? Probably, as so far pointing out the ways he was different to Meredith or Bartrand had worked in his favour. With this in mind he added: "I took her sword. Maddox put the broken bits together. That's what Maddox had in his hands. See Loudmouth… how I'm not as destroyed as Meredith is?"

"Maker's ass, Raleigh." Varric looked shocked. He almost dropped Bianca, "Are you serious? You fixed it on purpose knowing what it did to her? And I had convinced myself you were only a little messed up, _not_ crazy."

Samson tried to think of a reason that didn't involve ramblings of destiny or the lyrium talking to him, because that was what had _actually_ happened. He knew the decision had been impulsive in retrospect but it just _felt right_. Instead, he went with the most socially acceptable thought he'd had at the time. "I liked that it was shiny."

"And I almost forgot that's the sort of crap you tell yourself when making life altering decisions… Andraste's fingernails. This is too much responsibility for me to deal with." Varric became blank faced and gave up, "Look this lyrium thing isn't just about you. It's not just _your_ problem Raleigh. Everyone within a few meters will get the crazy problem if you get that – _Meredith's_ sword back together." the dwarf appeared conflicted with himself. Disheartened he added, "I don't like being the guy who says no, but I'm the red lyrium's most passionate hater and everyone else in Team Kirkwall reacts badly so…"

"No?"

Samson felt disappointed. He did really want to get the sword back, but it wasn't that simple. He knew it wasn't, but there could be a way to retrieve if he could return to his own ways peacefully once he talked to the Venatori, so it was better to leave this argument alone. "Okay. But I will need more red if I find more of my Gallows friends that take it. What's Susanne going to do?"

"Crap." Varric obviously hadn't thought of this. "Now that's a challenge. I'll contact my mining caste contacts again to see how they managed to lock the stuff away. We'll have to find a way to store it that won't interfere with everyone's lives. But I'll talk to Curly about it when we get back. This is too much for me to think about right now." He met Samson's gaze and tried to smile. "It's good you've found us some extra people, but the red is creepy. I want it around as little as possible."

"Maddox won't make another sword like Meredith's, alright?" Samson said. In his head he added, _not yet anyway_ , "He's a good sword smith so the Inquisition can find 'im plenty of work."

"Yeah. We're going to restock our supplies and check out where the rogue Templars are coming from." Varric said. "Don't die while we're gone."

* * *

Samson wrenched his left arm upward as a burst of green light showered from above his, Maddox and Susanne's heads. The ground was littered with insectoid demons of many sizes, bleeding out blackened, sticky blood among the homely landscape. The sight was foul but the screeching was lessening.

He was really getting sick of the noise. He wouldn't have done this if he didn't have to, but at least he might be able to get more lyrium another day and use this as the reason why.

The gate to Redcliffe Village opened with a rattling. Samson cleaned his sword and put it away as a boy around 13 hurried to them, colourfully dressed and likely middle class. What one could only assume was the boy's friends were gathered near the gate and more hesitant to approach.

"Thank you, Herald!" the stranger said, regaining his breath, "Maker blesses you and your family."

"Uh, yeah." Samson tried to play the part, but he couldn't help thinking, _what family?_ "I do my part to help."

The kid was a good head shorter than Samson was and had an air of innocence. His eyes fawned over the green sparks that were lessening.

"Does it hurt your eyes?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he guided them to the now open gate. "It looks amazing. Will you let my friend paint it sometime? It is very unique. Her parents hate her painting but they'd probably change their minds if she could sell it."

Samson scanned the group of teens, and one nervously avoided his eye. Proving someone wrong was a good reason to help. "I don't mind. It can't be tonight though." He wasn't sure when exactly he could. "It does hurt my eyes as a matter of fact. I have to close 'em when it gets too much."

"Okay!" the kid looked overjoyed.

Maddox and Susanne hovered behind them.

"Could you lead us to the Village?" Maddox requested.

"We like being sheep sometimes." Susanne said.

No one except Samson realized she was trying to be funny.

* * *

They stood near a windmill to examine what options lay before them. Among the colourful garb and chatter of its people, it looked like there were merchants near Lake Calenhad where boats were aligned.

"Where was Alexius last?" Samson inquired.

"He was walking through there." Maddox pointed somewhere straight ahead. "There is a chance the Venatori are no longer here others may direct us to their whereabouts."

"Excellent, Maddox." Samson praised him. "I'm pretty hungry. How about a meal?"

Susanne indicated to the boats thirty meters away. "I smell some over there."

Samson knew Susanne's sense of smell had been amplified by the lyrium, but it wasn't something Samson experienced. "Can you snuff out the edible ones, sister?"

Susanne drifted off toward the boats, "They are all edible, though one chef chooses to burn his bream around the edges."

Samson was surprised that he missed the taste of fish. He got sick of it in Kirkwall because of the overabundance of it.

There was such a motley crowd there were not as many glances in their direction than what Samson was used to. It was refreshing, even if most of the time he liked attention. Right now he didn't need it. Deciding he didn't have the appetite for a more expansive assortment of vegetables or baked dishes, they approached a portly man slightly burning his fish on some coals. An extremely bony young woman with a splay of freckles was smiling at the table that was set up.

"Good evening!" she waved proudly, "Would you like grilled fish? We are of Peyton House and my Pappa exports a large percentage of Redcliffe's fish! We have rosemary and orange slices to put on top."

The price mentioned next was reasonable, so really he didn't care how burnt it tasted. Samson reached for his satchel but Maddox had gotten to his first. He handed her fifty silver.

"We will each have one please." He said calmly.

The woman seemed delighted, not at all bothered by the fact she'd served a Tranquil. She took the silver as though it was a lifetimes worth of wages and called over her shoulder, "Pappa! These Knights would like three!"

"Good girl, Alexandra. Tell 'em to wait for twenty."

Samson had already heard this so it was a bit anti climatic to have Alexandra repeat it. They stepped a few paces to the left to get out of the way of other customers eyeing the food.

Perhaps waiting wouldn't be so bad. He could uncover information. "How's business?"

"Business is wonderful!" Alexandra said, although her eyes were shining with disquiet.

"How's business really?" Samson probed.

"Only a fraction less of marvellous," Alexandra said, "With all the rifts around Pappa hasn't been able to communicate with our business partners as smoothly as usual. And there are not as many people coming or going. It is so miserable. We do not often have stalls like this, but it is to use up extra fish."

"The rift outside is gone so it'll get better." Samson said, trying to smile. "I heard some Magister and mages was here earlier? They'd be some new customers to rope in."

"It was so exhilarating. I have never seen Tevinter natives around before." Alexandra's eyes twinkled. "I am not sure if they left or not, but I've been here all day and they were sinister enough to notice. The Magister turned his nose up at us, but I feel giddy and excited that it was some form of attention! They were muttering about waiting until speaking to the King Alistair about getting a proper meal. Then one woman said she was craving tavern food. The Gull and Lantern is not a poor choice for sustenance, if I'm honest! The chef who works this evening carves potatoes into flowers and roasts them with butter. It is so delightful."

It had slipped Samson's mind that the King of Fereldan's castle was just beyond this village. There was a possibility Alexius and his Venatori were either at the tavern or in the Castle. The tavern in any case would be easier to access. He turned to Susanne and Maddox to see if they had any reaction, though they were used to following his orders. They didn't say anything. Samson peered over at the other stalls. Maybe they knew more information.

"I'm going for a stroll." Samson said, "Wait nearby once food gets here."

He moved three merchants down and found a dwarf standing behind what looked like the wooden frame for a hut. There was a bench in front and the beams were like a four poster bed around it. Hay was piled on the very top and was slightly damp from possibly morning frost. There were books stacked in shelves at the back and some were in the front. A dwarf was speaking to a man at the counter.

Two thoughts crossed Samson's mind. One was that Alexius might be the type to enjoy reading. The second was that Josephine was more _likely_ the type to enjoy reading.

He knew which one he was going to ask first. He noticed that the dwarf looked pretty irritated.

"Good evening." Samson said. Having recognized this flat attitude in his Red Templars sometimes his first reaction was, "Had supper yet, friend?"

The dwarf nearly spat in indignation, "Fat lot of good food is if I can't sell any books. Those Vints were more bastard than the rogue mages, and that's saying something. Fucking surfacers. The scholarly crap was deceptive and inaccurate, they said."

It was nice when he didn't have to probe for information. Samson decided to go along with this angry response so mimicked the slouched posture, "That's depravity. Those fucking bastards stick their noses up at anybody. High maintenance blockheads, that's what they are."

"Got that right. The mages had my wares and took most of the decent titles." The dwarf said bitterly, "What you doing here anyway?"

Samson made a deliberate wave of his glowing green hand as he scratched something off his face before hiding it again. "Ah, I am wondering if you could help me find a book for a certain lady."

"Right. You're Inquisition, aren't you?" The bookseller considered it. "My wife cheated on me so I don't know if I'm the greatest to ask about taste in gifts."

Samson noticed the man's resentment at the phrase and decided to run with it.

"You still with that bitch?"

"Sure am, spoilt rotten woman she is." The dwarf said, "Sodding whinges about how I'm never home and she has to do everything. I would be able to go visit _more,_ likehow I'd _want_ to, if fucking mages didn't steal my coin. She doesn't get it. She thinks the surfacers have corrupted me and that I'm cheating too."

"Mental." Samson said. He wasn't a stranger to these types of discussions, "But your heart desires her right? That's why you're still with her."

"I promised if I can get these books sold I'll head back to Orzammar, and sod it with rifts and whatnot. The world's not safe to be on the surface. It means nothing to stay. Then I can put it all back together." The dwarf sighed heavily. His rage lessened and his features went lax. "But I can remember when I bought her books. What literature does your lady friend like?"

"Dunno." Samson said, realizing how unhelpful this was. "I was hoping I could make it a surprise present, see… I know she likes Orlais and travelling. My friend thinks I should give her a romance book, but I don't know if that's a good idea. I'd rather give her something that makes her think I'm cleverer? Not just interested in getting her to spread her legs."

He internally shuddered at the thought of Josephine doing just that. She seemed too civilized. Maybe she was a virgin.

 _Stop thinking 'bout it,_ he told himself.

"I got some miscellaneous ones she might like." the dwarf said. He picked up a small pile from behind him, "Fiction about… a bard who went into slavery to run away from her abusive sibling… a cooking book from a Fereldan and Orlais couple combining their expertise. A Chant translation… euggh…" the man looked up, "Any?"

Samson thought the fiction story sounded interesting enough, and maybe the cookbook. He also recalled that this man didn't have much coin and he did. "Can I have all of them? I'll give her a selection. I'll pay for 'em now and pick 'em up later. I got places to be."

The dwarf raised an eyebrow, impressed or disbelieving. "It's three gold."

Samson paid the merchant his money, "Any idea where the Vints went?"

There was a pause as the coin was stored and the stranger's posture was a lot calmer.

"Not one." The dwarf said, "But a mage came around here earlier. He dressed like the Vints… didn't look like spiders like the others. He was looking for something 'complex and thought provoking'. Told him I didn't have any. He reluctantly bought a novella about a Fereldan mercenary and went back that way."

The dwarf pointed in the same direction Maddox had indicated before. This wasn't helpful. He needed more information.

"Where'd he go exactly?" Samson pressed, "What did he look like?"

* * *

He enjoyed the leisurely ten minutes eating the fish with Maddox and Susanne, listening to the chatter and absorbing the sights. The Red Templars had preferred secluded locations and rarely strolled into villages or towns except to restock emergency rations or materials. The grass was a lot more comfortable in contrast to the hard or dirty ground of Kirkwall. Then again if he had decided to beg in this place he probably would have developed allergies.

The description of the Tevinter mage started off as 'just looks like a surfacer', but gradually expanded to a fit young man around 30 with dark hair, copper skin and a ridiculous thin moustache like an Orleasian. At least there weren't many who looked like Orleasian's in Fereldan. It would be simple enough to narrow down.

They entered the Gull and Lantern after scouting the other merchant stalls. It was as lively as the Hanged Man used to be, only less full of idiots. Paying little mind to the plucking percussion instruments they searched here and there, until Maddox stopped in his tracks.

"There is a man who matches the description of the person we are looking for.' He said blankly.

Samson followed the Tranquil's gaze, and sure enough a man in extravagant attire and that silly moustache was seated at one of the tables with some wine nearby. He was holding open a book with one hand and appeared to be deep in concentration.

"Perfect, Maddox." Samson said, and he made sure his hand was hidden as he approached.

"Hello there." he said. Having recited a half-decent opening phrase he noted, "Do you know a Gereon Alexius?"

"I do." The stranger abandoned his book and looked up at them. His air was astute and proper. "He was my mentor in Tevinter. Whatever sparked your interest?"

"My name's Samson."

The General flashed the Tevinter his mark before putting it away, "I'm with the Inquisition, some call me after the unseen prophet. I'd like to have a chat with your mentor."

"Good luck getting within two inches of him. Alexius is probably chatting away to the King of Fereldan as we speak." The man said bitterly. He spoke quickly with an air of propriety, "My name is Dorian Pavus by the way, of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. Are these your friends?"

"Yeah, of an exceptional sort.' Samson said with a smile.

Dorian made a face that he didn't know what to think about Samson's choice in friends.

"Does the King have business with Alexius?" Maddox asked slowly.

"Business? I wish he didn't. It is most likely to solidify the allegiance with the mages." Dorian took a swig of the wine, "I suspect that was a generosity you were hoping to gallantly retrieve at some point in the near future?"

Samson, Susanne and Maddox all looked at each other blankly. Yes, the mages were meant to be theirs.

"Do sit down." Dorian pushed one of the seats out with his foot. "You look unpleasantly stupid and attention seeking standing around me like birds of prey."

Reluctantly, like they'd never been offered such a luxury of chairs before, the three Red Templars took the remaining seats around Dorian. Samson confusion augmented the more information he discovered. Why were the Venatori in competition with the Inquisition?

"Why would Alexius care?" he demanded, "He already knows enough mages."

"We're talking about Tevinter culture." Dorian said stoutly. "A Magister can never know enough about anything, especially of people they regard on their level. One of their many missions in life is to know every person alive, and then learn all the secrets of those people. And yes it is rather sickening. It might be remotely tolerable if they weren't so critical at the same time, but as every important relation to my mother likes to remind me, ' _No Master Pavus, that is not how Tevinter works'_. I want no part in it and that's why Alexius does not know I am here. Between you and I I'd like to keep it that way unless the circumstances are unavoidable and leave it at that."

Samson nodded and thought of what more to say. He kind of liked the guy. He wasn't much a fan of Tevinter either and the man was honest and straightforward.

"I suppose you are in reasonable spirits?" Dorian said lightly, "Or do I need to buy you one to ease the red in your eyes? It looks unsightly, I hope you know."

"No drink needed." Samson said, ignoring the insults. "I'm in a hopeful mood now I've found somebody I was looking for"

"You were looking for me, were you? Now I'm excruciatingly worried. Your friends and yourself give the furthest impression of civility."

"Civility is for those who care for it." Said Susanne

"Are you of the same social rank as Alexius?" Samson tested.

"I'm a mage from Tevinter but not a member of the Magisterium. I hoped the explanation makes me slightly more approachable although a book seller from earlier had no idea of how rude he was. In short answer to your question, no."

"Which mages has Alexius accumulated?" Maddox asked.

"There's a certain Grand Enchanter Fiona who brought her mages to Redcliffe Castle for refuge." Dorian said, "Probably a feat of emotional manipulation or intimidation, no doubt. Still, don't you wonder how Alexius found them so quickly?"

Samson hesitated and upon pondering the question realized it was unusual, "I didn't think Alexius knew about the Inquisition since we only got here yesterday."

"It seems impossible, doesn't it?" Dorian mused, "That's because it is. To get to Redcliffe before the Inquisition Alexius distorted time itself."

It was so mental Corypheus was definitely involved.

"That's a dirty trick."

Samson felt somewhat jealous that Alexius had been granted the power of time magic and not him.

"Dirty? No. It is hardly even close." Dorian said. "Dangerous and reminding us of our morality? Yes."

"Manipulation of time is one of the most difficult branches of magic outside of binding rituals." Maddox said. "It would take a lot of time to gather the skills to achieve it."

"Yes. The magic Alexius is using is highly unstable. I know for I helped develop it. For months he couldn't get it to work, but that has changed."

"What man requires that magic?" Susanne asked.

"That I'm still not sure about." Dorian admitted, "I have theories of course, but if he does have motive, I do not understand it. Simply gaining the mages on his side seems a little too petty to justify ripping time apart."

"Are you aware that Alexius is part of a cult of power hungry Tevinter mages called the Venatori?" Samson inquired.

"Yes." Dorian said bluntly, "though I hardly like it and I suspect Alexius is after you."

"Good." Samson said. Finally this Tevinter was getting with what needed to be done. "I am after him too. While we're on the subject, I'm wondering if you might help arrange a chat?"

"I apologize. I thought you might be joking earlier, but now I am certain of it. Did I hear you correctly?" Dorian leaned forward on his elbows. "Your brilliant plan is to declare an audience with a Magister gone mad, despite the obvious danger involved?"

And this was supposed to be a problem?

"That's right." Samson said.

"In other words," Dorian said. "You think its best that we modestly…. and very stupidly cavort into Redcliffe Castle like we were lovingly invited and place ourselves in perilous, near death circumstances? Dare I ask if you are a masochist or merely a peculiar variety of the mentally disturbed?"

Samson smirked. His very real tendencies for masochism and quirkiness aside, there wasn't much more to gain if he _did_ extensively and tirelessly plan. He'd dealt with Venatori before and he generally knew how Corypheus functioned. If Alexius had time magic it made sense to confront him sooner rather than later, and now strengthened by red lyrium again he felt capable to face almost anything. Not approaching him soon was equally, if not more dangerous. The moment he got anyone else from the Inquisition involved his true identity as the Red Templar General would become known, and now more than ever he needed some extra allies.

He turned to Maddox and Susanne, to see if they had any opinion, but they were as inexpressive and obedient as always.

"Yeah, if you want to make it sound like I haven't planned anything." He said, but to stop the look of disbelief on Dorian's face he added, "I don't think we'll be in immediate danger."

"What makes you so sure?"

Samson pondered a moment, keeping straight faced, on how he could explain his situation without arising suspicion. Susanne said Corypheus wanted to the green mark, so in theory Alexius might want it as well. Even if they were enemies now, they were too valuable to kill outright or on the spot.

"I think I have something he needs." he responded. "I can be persuasive when needed. It's a talent I've developed over my time. And even if we need to fight I reckon we can take him. My friends are very skilled with their weapons and their senses. I'm guessing you are too."

Dorian looked unconvinced. He leaned back and peered behind Samson. "Your friends do not think of that as… how should I put it… I suppose honesty is best, yes? _Dim-witted_."

Samson glanced back again at his allies but they shook their heads. Maddox and Susanne could be counted to express their opinions if they had any severe concerns, but they did not even twitch. Dorian, slowly, sighed in reluctant agreement.

"I'd like to help." he said, "Before we do anything else, just to prove you have some idea of what you're doing, there is a rift in the Chantry. Could you help dispose of it?"

Samson was so sick of rifts and stalling he wanted to punch Dorian in the face, but agreed to the favour anyway.

* * *

They didn't quite prance to the Castle blithely like Dorian insinuated, but it was a casual affair all the same. The Tevinter mage's confidence in Samson had been somewhat restored by closing of the rift, but there was still amending to be made. As they reached the bottom of the stairs to Redcliffe Castle courtyard, it was clear resistance had already found them. Two Venatori were standing at the entrance.

Stopping in their tracks, Samson turned to Dorian. He was hard to see by nightfall. Maddox and Susanne's eyes had a very faint red outline which made them easier to differentiate.

"You're still content with the plan?" Samson checked.

Dorian, with a stiff upper lip, nodded. "Yes. I won't pretend I'm not suspicious of your desire for secrecy, but I understand the necessity for not coming across as hostile. We're in agreement then that there will be intervening if it gets out of hand?"

Dorian, Maddox and Susanne were to watch at a distance and out of ear shot. If anything became nasty they were allowed to help. Samson merely didn't want to be overheard and have his identity as the Red Templar General found out.

"Of course…" Samson said.

They stepped the remainder of the steps to the top. The General hoped the Venatori guarding the doors wouldn't let slip how he knew Alexius, but thankfully what was visible of their eyes darted to Dorian first.

"What brings you here?"

Dorian stepped forward, "I believe Felix was expecting me at this hour? I have brought friends. Alexius may be interested." He waited for a moment, but when the Venatori did nothing said, "I should remind you Felix has a strict bed time."

Samson wondered if this was true, and who the Blighted hell Felix was, but Maddox stepped forward. "I may verify if you do not wish to abandon your posts."

"Stay there." the Venatori said, suddenly stepping in front of him.

"That's mighty clever of you." Dorian told Maddox. There was a momentous lack of sarcasm.

The man named Felix appeared within a few minutes, a young man with a rectangular face, stubble and a Maddox-like lack of hair. His pupils shrunk in surprise of seeing Samson and the others.

"Good evening Dorian." he put on a politely jovial tone. "I'm pleased you could all make it. Come in."

They did in silence. Susanne looked to the ceiling in awe, "Such a whimsical Castle."

"It is well structured and sturdy." Maddox agreed in his own way.

Samson was just impressed that Felix had gone along with the lie so flawlessly. They paced past lines of the King's guards and Venatori before stopping temporarily in some kind of cellar.

"I'm presuming there isn't time for introductions." Felix said.

Dorian shot Samson a look. "Goodbyes, perhaps?" he added more lightly, "Could we do something dramatic before stumbling into our demise?"

Felix frowned. His gaze to Samson was non-judgemental. "I assume you know all about my father?"

"In a way." Samson said with a crude grin. How much did Felix know?

"The Herald would like us to sit in the corner like toddlers while he has a… diplomatic discussion with Alexius." Dorian clarified.

Felix gave a thoughtful sound. "I guess there isn't much more to say but good luck. He is in the throne room at the moment. I think I know a good place Dorian and your friends can watch without interrupting anything, Herald."

Samson had never been in a Castle, so he couldn't help admiring the orange glow of the fireplace, polished wooden floorboards and murals on the wall. The red leather outline of Alexius was in an armchair… but not for long. As Samson walked in, he was annoyed to see a couple of Venatori follow in after him and wait nearby. They had unctuous smiles on their faces.

Samson felt slightly unnerved and claustrophobic, but Corypheus wasn't that much of an unforgiving monster, right? It was still best the others were not in the room.

"It did not take as long as I dreaded." Alexius said and he rose to his feet. "Hello, General. It is reassuring that you have come to make your presence known." He surveyed the room and mused, "Do you feel at ease knowing that your Red Templars have lost? Soon there will be nothing more in Thedas for you to worry about…."

Samson suddenly wondered why Dorian hadn't killed this man in his sleep.

"I'd like it if you could be more specific, Alexius." he said.

"It is simple business. When the Venatori rises you, and your followers, will fall."

"It was never a competition." Samson said, "Our objectives were united. We were to restore the world to what it used to be. There were cross over and bargains to make the visions co-exist and overcome the mistakes of the past – to make it better than just an old memory."

"Yes, and there _were no Templars_ in such a momentous time in history." Alexius said calmly, observing the back of his hand. He looked bored, almost like this was something he had recited a dozen times. "You are aware of this. There is little difference between what the plan _was_ and what it is now, except it is more definite. There will be no compromises. The past will be the present with little alteration besides who its leaders are. With The Venatori and the Elder One the Templar Order will never come to exist. Mages will rule from the Boric Ocean to the Frozen seas. It won't only be the Chantry that is restored, but in a world where the Imperium is risen from the ashes and rule as the Elder One does, your Templars will be left behind."

This, sadly, confirmed everything Susanne and Maddox had relayed to him. It was infuriating. The denial swept over Samson all over again. He still didn't want it to be true. Three years of hard work wouldn't be pushed aside!

If it had, there remained no proper justification. For the benefit of the doubt and his safety he pretended his discussion with Susanne had never happened.

"Why was the plan changed?" Samson demanded, angry. "I am on your side. I am only with the Inquisition to save my ass and to destroy them from the inside! Tell me what to do. I'd do it."

Even if his allies were growing on him, he diligently kept this out of the explanation.

"You are no longer measured with anything less of derision from the Venatori." Alexius said with a hateful smile. "We do not need Red Templars with us and your _problems_ are hardly my concern. As a courtesy I inform you of what The Elder One wants you to know. He informed me that you were no longer suitable to lead the Templars to their New Order. It was equitably agreed that the Venatori will take precedence too."

This couldn't just be the _end_.

"And I can't change his mind?" Samson shouted. "By the Black City – I don't even know what I did!"

"The Elder One does not care for excuses when the consequences were so severe." Alexius said. "You walk in here with your mark, a gift you can't fathom to understand, and you presume that makes you worthy of redemption? He considers you an enemy and therefore so will I."

Dorian entered the room with Maddox, Susanne and Felix not far behind.

"And I thought I had the loudest voice out of everyone." Dorian remarked, strolling past Samson to get closer to Alexius. His march was purposeful and his features were focused and stern. He glared hateful at Samson, "Honestly I thought you'd phrase your ranting much more tactfully. I hoped it was a joke but Maddox confirmed it to be true," He directed the next part at Alexius. "Are you saying the Herald of Andraste has agreed to your plan? Your stupid, insane proposal to rip Thedas apart?"

"General Samson _was_ allied with the Elder One. But he has failed and will not be reaccepted." Alexius crossed his arms. "It is a matter you cannot begin to understand. Samson stands on similar footing to you, Dorian. You both had a chance to be a part of this uprising and you turned it down in your own selfish, differing causes."

"Why would you support this, if we are so apparently selfish?" Dorian threatened, ignoring Samson for now. "I remember you saying you didn't want this outcome to happen, yet somehow you changed your mind."

The General stared at Dorian. The Tevinter had said 'we are so apparently selfish'. Did that mean he didn't think Samson was selfish? Or perhaps he thought he was redeemable. Either way, it was somewhat a comfort that Dorian's automatic response wasn't to attack him.

"Give it up, father." Felix hurried forward from the back of the group. "Let the Inquisition have the mages, close the Breach and we can go home."

Samson again, wondered how Felix fit into everything.

Despite his son reaching out, Alexius barely showed weakness.

"The Elder One promised that if I reversed Samson's mistake at the Conclave that he would save you."

"I'm going to die, father." said Felix. "You have to accept that."

 _What? Where did that come from?_ Samson wondered, confused. Was Felix some sick bloke? Was Corypheus making promises again? Were _all_ his master's promises lies?

The Herald was intrigued yet caught between what he was _meant_ to do. The Venatori were against him. He knew that for sure now, even if he still hated it and he didn't want to agree. There wasn't much choice right now unless he wanted to die. Dorian was fuming. Would he want to still help Samson despite his allegiances?

All eyes turned to Alexius. He was unforgiving.

"The Elder One also said that if reversing the General's mistake meant taking his life, then I was permitted to do so." Alexius said. He smiled and walked closer them. "Samson, will you yield? Will you allow me to take your mark? That way, we may depart without further bloodshed and we will likely never encounter each other again, lest you refuse to surrender. We will discover where you are and not let you run free."

The words echoed far longer in his head than they did in the room, a side effect of the red, no doubt.

Samson paused. He looked down at the glowing green horror that had dragged him into the Inquisition. It hurt his eyes, like usual, but he bore into them. Was this decision worth it?

According to Alexius, Corypheus didn't care why Samson had this mark, even if it was done from some freak accident. The General felt incredibly angry knowing this. He looked to Susanne and tilted his head. She said Corypheus was just like Meredith and that Samson deserved better than to be thrown out, because he was important and if someone had a large enough role in something and was proficient enough at it, it was stupid to get rid of them, no matter the justification. She believed in him. Maddox did too.

If he surrendered, the New Order would be created, but at the cost of being in the hands of a corrupted monster. Samson would also get no credit for his actions. He would also likely be murdered by Dorian or taken hostage by the Inquisition.

If Samson said no, the New Order wouldn't be created, but he could save others from being messed around by Corypheus. Maybe he could allow the Inquisition to see what important information Corypheus had given him and make them stronger. If he shared his ideas, maybe they would listen. Maybe… he wouldn't be thrown out by them. They'd met him and hated him, but they hadn't thrown him out yet.

They had come here knowing a fight might be an outcome. The General had hoped he could avoid it but he had been wrong. These idiots weren't going to be cooperative and respect him, so he wouldn't either.

Samson looked Alexius right in the eye, even the Magister started to whirl a spell in his hand.

"I may not like being called the Herald of Andraste," he reached for his sword, pointed it toward his rival and focused on the red lyrium in his veins, "but I will not yield to you fucking codgers."

In a sound of waves crashing there was a burst of light from Alexius and a swirling amorphous mass of something undoubtedly awful appeared in the middle of the room. The colours spat out mixes of white, green and black like an exploding star. Samson wondered what it was but didn't have to wait for an answer. The red showed him pictures of timepieces and he could feel the ripples of experience pulling on him and reverberating throughout the entire castle. This was that time magic rubbish. He couldn't move within a certain radius of it.

"Venatori." Alexius's voice was deadly calm. There was a glint of contempt in his eyes. "Destroy them."

There wasn't any time to think.

Samson threw his spare arm forward and red flurry of sparks shot across the room, but Alexius seemed to break it apart, and the left over flickers were sucked into the time vortex.

"Keep a ten meters distance from that spell!" Samson boomed over his shoulder. Whatever it was, it was nothing good.

Avoiding what was in the middle of the room was going to be challenging.

With a crashing of bodies and metal hitting the ground, Susanne paralysed half of the Venatori on the right side of the room. Dorian had created a silver barrier to deflect the attacks coming from the left. Sprays of fire and electricity turreted against the shield, which fluctuated in its strength, but it was sturdy. The noise brought on by the time spell and the shield was one of the most messed up sounds Samson had ever heard, and he'd heard plenty of wrecked things in his lifetime.

"Get the Tranquil and the harlot." One Venatori shouted, and the attackers changed their strategy.

Samson used a Holy Smite to keep the Venatori on Susanne's side of the room on the ground for longer. He raised his shield with his free hand. He was going to defend his new Tevinter friend.

" _General_." Dorian said disdainfully, raising his voice, focusing on the enemies on the other side. It was obvious there would be explaining to do after this. It seemed he was allying with Samson out of convenience. "We need to get out of here, and quickly. We're completely outnumbered."

A rumbling of boots echoed around the room. Susanne and Maddox both head to plunge their weapons into the paralysed Venatori – Susanne on the offense and Maddox on the defence, as he did not have the years of experience learning the sword. They were swift and efficient, but there were two of them and still many cultist mages left.

"We aim at Alexius and attack him together." Samson said, "Slow him down as much as possible, then we run."

"Granted, I never completely trusted your plan, but this is beyond stupid." Dorian repeated, "And how are you so certain what the boundaries and purpose of that spell is?"

His temporary ally not impressed. Neither it seemed was Alexius.

"You are completely inadequate, General." The Magister called, creating another ball of light in his hand.

Samson didn't have enough time to get irked by how this comment reminded him of when Meredith threw him out of the Templar Order.

"Go!" Samson called, and he shot out a holy smite at Alexius. Dorian shot him with electricity. Susanne shot out a powerful blast of red electricity which filled the room with screams. The other Venatori were heading toward them. Before Samson turned away he watched Alexius attempt to rise from his feet. He looked irked, but calculating. Unexpected, the man raised his hand and physically dragged the spell toward him. There was a burst of swirling green that appeared from over Alexius's head and he disappeared along with the time spell, though radiation from it still remained. Did he do that deliberately?

He had to have done.

"What by the Black City just happened!?" Samson shouted.

The room was suddenly a lot quieter like when a tub of running water was halted. Dorian shot out another burst of electricity at the Venatori. They started to run back toward the exit.

"Did I mention this was a terrible plan?" Dorian called over his shoulder.

"Susanne! Maddox!" Samson ushered them over, but they'd already sensed the chaos and were heading back with them.

"I believe Alexius changed his mind about the time magic." Maddox said.

"Dorian, about the spell!" Samson called at Dorian as they ran, "I can't hear voices or anything so I don't know how I found out! Suppose I'm clever, maybe?"

"Shut up." Dorian said, not sure if Samson was joking or serious. "Let's just get out."

As they stepped out of the castle there was another burst of light like flash of lightning. They all skidded to cover their eyes, and Susanne almost tripped over her own feet. When the surroundings reappeared Alexius was right in front of them, appearing pale faced and his robes burned.

Maddox was the first of the welcoming committee. "Good evening again, Alexius."

Dorian gaped. "Back already? Where in the Maker did you disappear to?"

Silence fell. The Venatori behind them stopped as Alexius raised a hand. Redcliffe seemed eerie and unnerving.

"I will not fight you." Alexius said, "but neither will I join or follow your Inquisition. I see now… there is a lot about this world that I have yet to understand…and even more that I do not believe. But I will let you go for now."

The four of them stared at each other in bewilderment, one after the other.

"I'm pleased you've come around to our way of thinking." Dorian said.

Samson half managed a smile. It was a strange turn of events, but he'd roll with it, "Before you explain what crackpot rubbish you're on about, what about the mages?"

"They will be yours." Alexius said, "I will ensure rearrangements are made with Fiona. I only ask for your mercy until I can orientate myself to certain… likelihoods. The Elder One has a lot to answer for."

The Magister appeared extremely guilt stricken and in shock.

The General turned to Dorian, "I like giving folk mercy, but I also don't like getting messed around. I reckon we should bring him back to the campsite to be held under siege."

"On the assumption Felix will be informed I think that is suitable." Dorian said brightly, "I am thinking King Alistair may have a better holding place for him until you return back to wherever you came from."

"Haven." Samson said, and deciding he liked Dorian asked, "You can join us if you like. We love having mages around."

"I am still shocked you were working for the Elder One in the first place." Dorian said, "I assume this is the sort of defamatory information that no one else knows about?"

"No." Samson said, "I came here with Maddox and Susanne so it would stay that way."

"Perhaps if you bribe me with enough intelligent, witty conversations I will keep your secret." Dorian said with a cheeky smile. "I'd like to join the Inquisition but you have a decent many chores to do before I forgive you for your part in starting this whole mess."

"I can do that." Samson said. "I'll try to anyhow."

No one knew what was happening, or even if they believed in what they should, but it would slowly make sense with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Alexa in the Dragon Age Fanfic Writer's group for beta-ing for me. "Alexandra" is an OC from my By the Blood of the Elder One fic.... yay for crossovers?  
> Let me know what you think.


	9. Frostback Mountains III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus. I finally have a new beta, Schattenriss (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenriss/pseuds/Schattenriss). His feedback was fantastic and much needed. Please enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think.

Dorian gazed over the mountain's edge from beneath the trees, having abandoned camp hours ago. Snow caked the benighted muck and moss below, appearing more like the ocean floor. The whirlwind of having taken Alexius under siege was over, but there was explaining to do before departing to Haven.

The boulder Samson chose as a seat was freezing, but he tried not to let the temperature bother him. Dorian, still in his many layers of tightly woven vestments and dense cloaks, warmed the area with a flick of his staff. The faintest light remained, only a whit more comforting than the moon.

"I think it is rather self-explanatory what I'd like to know," Dorian said, "given I've only expressed confusion over it half a dozen times by now."

"You want to know how I joined the Elder One?" Samson guessed.

"Yes, although _why_ is of greater interest to me," Dorian clarified. He looked sternly over at the ground and did not look ready to forgive.

Samson exhaled slowly through his nose. The why led into personal details about who he currently was as a person and dug down to his core ideologies. It would be so easy to be reprimanded for such thoughts. He preferred explaining the _how_.

"What does it achieve to know that?"

Dorian looked askance, "Really? You think everybody's going to nicely forget about your life choices in a heartbeat? Even if they never find out, which I sorely doubt, I suggest thinking of a better rationale if you haven't already. No. As much as I desire to whirl you off this cliff for your past actions, and set you on fire at the bottom, if they hold any similarity to what Alexius did, I won't learn anything by ignoring your motivations. I assume you have them, yes? If the Maker is looking down on us with fortune? Perhaps, in trying to understand the method to your madness, we can determine further weaknesses of the… Red Templars, was it?"

"That's right." Samson affirmed. For a second he had a brief sensation that maybe he'd had conversations like this before that didn't go well, but there wasn't anything, not beyond rejections from those he tried to recruit to the Red Templars. Those people didn't matter. Besides, this Tevinter wasn't close to him. Compete trust would be asinine. He sighed, and sought the most rudimentary explanation he could muster. "There's a lot I don't want to explain, but I have an analogy."

"I suppose if that's truly the best you can do," Dorian said, "I'll accept it, as that's the gentlemanly reaction to have. What is your comparison?"

"Imagine someone you care about has sliced their leg open," Samson explained, "A blade severed the major arteries and so the person will bleed out quickly if you don't do something."

"I fail to see how this relates to the Elder One," Dorian acknowledged, "but if it has a wonderful conclusion I'll overlook it. Continue."

The General wasn't expecting it to make sense yet, so he didn't mind, "You can try to find help or you can heal the injury yourself with what little materials are left at your camp. On the assumption you don't have magic." Samson said hastily. "To me, the Inquisition is going the long way, doing the proper steps to find nurses. There's risk your friend will die on the way. It is safer, but is it smarter? Who knows. It takes a long time to get there. Maybe the Inquisition is too far away. And who knows if these nurses are any good. They could be under-qualified. The friend dies."

Dorian finally looked at Samson, obviously trying to piece this analogy together, but he didn't say anything. Suspicion was still etched into every detail of his skin.

"The Elder One is the other option," he continued, "Imagine you have a needle and string. You sew the cut up yourself. Without a numbing potion, your friend screams and you get blood over everything, but you put it back together so it stops bleeding. It is quicker, it is filthy, maybe the friend gets an infection, but it gets the job done. There's time to go to the nurses to fix the rest of it up. Your friend survives."

Dorian looked disapproving now, mulling over the story, "Your logic, if I interpret your analogy correctly, is that the conventional methods of changing the world are unreliable, and in comparison doing something completely unethical and painful for the sake of reaching similar means _quicker_ , is better?"

Of course phrasing it that way would make it sound hideous. Still, that was the _gist_ of it.

"Exactly."

Dorian crossed his arms, "I don't entirely disagree. Yes the world is run by the foolish and mad, those who use power for the wrong reasons, those who disparage others… perhaps history has not proven the human race to be teeming with the intelligent sort. I certainly will need some convincing of the Inquisition myself, but disregarding the feelings of others and knowing you are hurting them to achieve your ends makes you no better than those who perform blood magic."

Samson didn't quite follow, "Letting Thedas destroy itself by its rules and system's own stupidity is also causing a lot of harm, possibly more. Those who follow the Elder One think he's doing the world a favour by cutting corners. And if there's no other way…"

"That is exactly what those who perform blood magic say," Dorian interrupted, "It is what motivated Alexius to join the Elder One as well. There is this sense of helplessness about the world, a feeling that there are no options and no hope, and so you and others on the enemy's side, resort to extreme measures. It hardly justifies it. You are here right now. It proves there _is_ another option and your assumption might be proven incorrect. You can't feel completely without assurance."

Samson frowned. He didn't think it was overly comforting, but Dorian had a point. The fates of the Inquisition's and his were certainly turning in a different direction, "I get your point."

He still didn't think his underlying reasoning was wrong. The world _was_ completely rubbish. The Inquisition agreed with that.

"Now I can't help but consider the reasons people become so helpless and pessimistic about the world that they cease to see hope anymore. Can't you be content with self-mutilation and mulling in your own upset? " Dorian postulated, as though in a philosophy class. "I am getting carried away… In the case of Alexius and Felix it was to try evading an unavoidable fate. Someone Alexius cared about was going to die." He paused, "I don't agree with the means but all matters considered that _is_ a helpless situation, however I fail to see how this mysterious Elder One could fix it."

"The Elder One is very powerful," Samson said, simply. He wasn't going to explain about Corypheus tonight. His sharing limit had already been reached.

"What made you feel like you were shoved into a corner with no other choice than to attack?" Dorian questioned. His voice was softer now, slightly more understanding, but Samson did not feel understood.

The General didn't want to talk about what had influenced his state of mind. It was an accumulation of experiences over the course of ten years he'd been out of the Gallows. Only very particular types of people would understand, and he wasn't sure they were anyone in the Inquisition right now. He stood up, preparing to leave.

"Lots of things," Samson said finally, "It wasn't only _one_ occasion like it was with Alexius. I wouldn't go to such lengths for one person or from one experience, no matter how nasty, no matter how much I cared about them."

He took a step away but Dorian inquired, "Even if you loved the person more than anything in the world? If they _were_ your entire world?"

Samson scowled. He hated these topics. He couldn't feel love but he did _know_ of it. And yes, there was Faith. She had never been well because of the Chantry's wickedness, but he hadn't only joined the Elder One for her. He did it for all those the Chantry had hurt, the mages, the Templars _and_ everyone else. As to when he felt completely helpless….

Without another word, Samson returned to the tent, annoyed that Dorian was partially right.

* * *

The rest of Team Kirkwall was asleep, except for Brice.

"You disappeared for a while," he remarked. The mage's eyes were closed but maybe he was also having trouble falling asleep.

"And you want me to tell you?" Samson inquired, knowing that the answer to that question was a definite 'no'.

Brice made a sound to express indifference.

Pulling his boots off at last, Samson felt assured by the lack of interrogation, so asked as an afterthought, "Having trouble sleeping, brother?"

Brice hesitated, "Worried about my family – my sister."

The correction was as if he was confident of his parents' safety, though not his sibling. If they lived in Kirkwall, what had happened to them? The city was in a state of strife when Samson departed. Even the citizens who had stayed remained edgy with an unsteady income. It wasn't a predictable way of life.

"Are they safe?"

Again, the mage hesitated, "Kind of."

Samson slipped into his sleeping bag, having changed out of the majority of his armour earlier. What to say? The conflict between interest and exhaustion kept his mind buzzing.

"They moved in with relatives and found casual work in Starkhaven," Brice said, "The city is not in a good way either, but it isn't as horrendous as Kirkwall. I could have gone if I wanted to. Starkhaven's Circle had been rebuilt for long enough. For what, though? Being confined to a different building? The management of the Gallows was sloppy with Cullen – not from a lack of trying – but it meant I had slightly more liberty there than if I went to a different Circle."

"Guess that apostate blowing up the Chantry made some difference to mage's liberty after all," Samson admitted. No doubt, the chaos that followed was an unwanted consequence but… was rebellion a form of freedom? "You didn't want to tear the place apart or run?"

Perhaps the comment caught Brice by surprise, as he didn't answer for a moment, "As much as I hated it, it had become home because of my friends. And I got to know Cullen more once…"

The sentence was left unfinished.

"What?"

"Hmm?"

"You didn't finish what you were saying," Samson said.

"After my sister... stopped being around," Brice replied carefully, "She was a mutual friend of Cullen's, and since we hated each other in those days I didn't want anything to do with anyone she was associated with."

Samson felt slightly reassured by this answer, and confused in others. This explained why the two had not met each other previously. Cullen and Samson didn't talk to each other at all when Cullen was Knight Captain, so there was no opportunity to have run into Brice. But hadn't Samson been Cullen's roommate once? Wouldn't he be able to remember acquaintances or faces from the Gallows?

Alarmed, Samson had the foreboding thought that he couldn't recall what year he had been dismissed from the Gallows in the first place. Only a mental haze and the discomfort brought on by the lyrium answered him. But… that detail _was_ important, wasn't it? Taking into consideration who he was now, his departure seemed the kind of detail he would have been bitter about for ages.

Maybe it was best he wasn't negative about more than was necessary. Not certain whether Samson wanted to say 'shut up' from feeling uncomfortable, 'goodnight' or abruptly change the subject to be more polite, he didn't reply.

"Are you… asleep?" Brice wondered, sounding as unsure as Samson felt.

"No, but I don't want to talk anymore."

"Yeah, okay," the mage – amazingly – didn't press the issue, "Don't get your head in a mess over it."

"Already is." Samson said. Then he wondered if Brice had guessed this, or how far talk about his mental breakdown from first night in Haven had spread. Cain knew about it vaguely, anyway, and if Cullen knew Brice…

"Mine is too. Just… don't dig holes into issues you can't do anything about."

Indeed, and it was a sensible enough recommendation that Samson followed it.

"Good advice, brother."

* * *

Not desiring to anger Cassandra with reading excerpts of Varric's book out loud again, the members of Team Kirkwall theorized what would be next for them in Haven, and what they would prefer to do. Dorian went back and forth between talking to them as a means to avoid getting into heated debates with Alexius. It was a relief, Samson realized, as he watched as the mountains turn to flat terrain: if the Tevinter's company was appreciated among most of the Inquisition despite being associated with an 'enemy', maybe there was a chance that one day he wouldn't be completely despised either.

They arrived back to Haven in a few evenings time. Cullen immediately gravitated to the horses at the front, "How did it go, Scout Harding?"

"There weren't any major dilemmas, Commander." The dwarf said tentatively, following with a grand report of all the Inquisition's achievements. Samson thought the other groups did far more work than his did - with the existence of the Elder One nicely secret, that is.

Legs aching, he began to descend from his mount, as those around him did the same.

Cullen approached once Samson's horse was no longer his responsibility.

"In case you haven't heard the latest news, Curly," Varric said, with a knowing grin in Samson's direction, "Raleigh proved he has some social skills."

Like any notion of 'social skills' was well out of Samson's ability, Cullen appeared confused, "No, I haven't. What do you mean?"

"Samson found some friends of his from the Gallows," Cain explained, "They have agreed to be allies of the Inquisition."

"Yeah, and they'll do good work," Samson said. Couldn't Cullen's stop with the disapproval?

It was no use. Cullen continued to look suspicious, and Maddox's appearance worsened the reaction.

"Hello Commander Cullen," he said, "Ser Cain speaks the truth."

Samson snickered. The Tranquil always looked too innocent.

"Maker's breath," Cullen swore, apparently disconcerted, "Maddox! I wasn't expecting... The last I remember seeing you is…" he glanced at Samson, then appeared to calculate a lot in a very short space of time, "For the love of Andraste, Samson, why did you bring him here?!"

"Why not?" Samson asked, "He's not causing any problems."  
"Yes, not at the _moment_ ," Cullen agreed. He seemed frustrated with himself, "but – URG - never mind."

"Was I meant to ditch him?" Samson pressed, "Is that what you would do, _Commander_?"

Cullen calmed only slightly, "No, I can't have expected you to do that, but…. this is madness!" the moment of anger became more direct, "Sometimes I hate you. It's like during your roundabout adventures you go out of your way to make life difficult for everyone."

"Good!" Samson called back, "We agree on something!"

"Is there a means I can be of assistance, Commander?" Maddox said.

"Sweet Maker," Cullen cursed, staring at Maddox like a long lost puppy, "I apologize, Maddox. I've had a lot on my mind. Perhaps we can discuss it some more in my office? If you have time, that is. Though before I do that, Maddox and…. where is your other friend, Samson?"

He'd barely finished the sentence when Ser Susanne appeared from practically nowhere.

"Good evening, Commander Cullen."

The Commander raised his eyebrows. It wasn't clear if he recognized the Templar or not, "G-Good evening, Knight Templar."  
"Susanne."

"Y-Yes. Susanne."

"What should I do, Commander?" Samson requested.

"Get some food and head to sleep," Cullen said.

 _But I don't want to sleep,_ Samson thought of saying.

"Is Lady Josephine still working?"

"Why in Thedas does that matter to you?"

Samson shrugged as 'none of your business,' crossed his mind, "…Being a good Herald, Commander."

Cullen gave a sceptical grunt and whirled around as Dorian, pointedly clearing his throat, stepped out grandly from between two horses. "And who is this?" he demanded.

"I'm glad you asked that," Dorian said.

Samson left them to it; it gave him time to talk to Josephine without worrying about the Blond Bother interrupting. Before walking away, he made sure the books he'd bought were not at risk of falling from his satchel.

* * *

Typically, he found Leliana along the way, who confirmed that 'Josie' was in fact, still in her office.

Relieved, he gave her a nod of goodnight. Josephine, however, jumped slightly when he entered.

"S-Ser Samson!" it looked like she smudged ink on her page. "Good evening. You appear unscathed from the trip the Hinterlands. I hear it went well, despite the trouble with Alexius?"

Samson smiled. "I am very good at fighting."

He hoped to the dead Maker he hadn't raised his eyebrows suggestively as he thought he just did. She didn't seem to react in any case. The office was lit only by two candles, eerie, like they were in camp.

"Is there anything you wish to inform me of… or I can acquire for you?" Josephine asked.

"Nah," Samson crossed his arms, "I only wanted to check you had a nice day. It's important that you don't get overworked, Lady Josephine. Leliana says you do more work than Cullen does, and we both know how much he effort he puts in."

Spitefully, he didn't think Cullen did shit.

"Oh. That is kind of you," Josephine said, "Leliana is prone to exaggerating at times. It was as pleasant as any other, thank you."

"Is that good?"

"I… yes." The woman sipped at water she had at her desk. "What about your Hinterlands travels? Were Ser Cain and Enchanter Brice suitable choices for your team?"

"They were an agreeable sort," Samson said. Really, he thought they were okay, "I decided I'd like to meet a tutor in Val Royeaux."

"Truly?" Josephine's eyes widened, "You seemed certain of your decision before."

"I changed my mind," Samson explained, "I want to learn about the culture." To be more convincing he added hastily, "Maybe it isn't as rubbish as I think it is."

"That is wonderful!" Josephine seemed delighted. Her face broke into the smile, exactly what he'd been hoping for. "I will make a note to mention to the Commander in the morning to confirm with his contact."

Samson smiled back, somewhat wryly, as she jotted this down. He wanted to imprint that look in his memory. How her eyes sparkled even in the exhaustion of the day.

"Is there anything else?"

 _Remember the books,_ Samson forced himself not to stutter, "You still want to learn about the red?"

"The… lyrium? Yes," Josephine said reluctantly, "I'm afraid it cannot be tonight."

"No," Samson agreed, "Tomorrow?"

Josephine had a look through a small booklet nearby. "I have time in the afternoon to discuss it if you seek me after lunch."

Samson had temporarily forgotten how to say thank you so he only nodded with a hint of a grin on his face. These books were weighing him down. He didn't want to be carrying around these books any longer.

"Do you like reading, Josephine?"

"How I adored it when I had instances of free time at University." Josephine looked as though she wanted to return to the memory. "Unfortunately I cannot dedicate the time I would like to the pastime. As I recall I have seen Varric writing in his spare moments. I am envious. The most I read are a few pages in a week! I heard encouraging reviews of his mystery serial," she sighed, "Between this and preparing to take over my family's estate, I deliberate whether it is worth spending coin on such frivolities."

Samson was intrigued by her family.

"Are you an only child?"

"I wouldn't want to impose the politics of my family onto you, Ser Samson," she informed him, "I have four siblings and as taxing as the responsibility to attend to them is, a Montilyet never shuns her family. My mother considers me the most capable to take over the affairs."

"You do decently with the Inquisition," Samson said, "In my very humble opinion your mother's got the right idea."

"You flatter me, your Grace." Josephine's elbow slipped on the desk. "Between the two of us my siblings are more wearisome."

Samson couldn't help adding, "Even more than me?"

"You have not met my younger sister," Josephine said, "She has no head for social engagements."

Was that a comment that Samson did have an idea how to manage himself in a social situation? He didn't want to push his luck.

 _Just give her the blasted books,_ he told himself. Hesitating, he reached for his satchel.

"It's a shame you don't have much time to read, Lady Josephine." Samson gave his very best impression of sounding disappointed, "A bookseller gave me these as a thanks for helping with his nicked wagon. I don't like wasting presents. I was going to give them to Varric, but since you have so little free time, I thought you deserved first choice."

He avoided Josephine's eye as he placed the three titles on her desk cover up – a fiction, a cookbook and an interpretation of the Chant. When she made an excited noise, he immediately broke the stoic illusion and grinned at how her fingers were covering her mouth.

"This is too much," she said, "Is that a tale of _Charlotte Adichie_ ' _s_?"

Before he could answer, as he only vaguely remembered the author's name, Samson watched as the Antivan picked up the fiction book and scanned the back. "So it is! An old friend of mine from Val Royeaux, Nadine, she read these books at every opportunity – even seconds before examinations. The teachers always told her the literature was for adolescents. No one had heard of them, but she swore it was like treasure unfounded at the bottom of the sea." She held it closer to her, "Perhaps I will find out if there is any truth to her praise."

"You can have all of them if you like." Samson said, relieved that she'd found one she wanted.

Josephine's grin widened and she scanned the other titles, "The cook book looks intriguing. However I have even less time to cook than I do to read." She chuckled at herself for how silly this sounded. "It helps that the meals for the Inquisition are provided, of course, but perhaps my brother Antoine would revere the learning opportunity. The one time he invited a woman over to the Estate, my mother tells me he burned the bottom of a pot of soup. Soup!"

With a grateful smile, Josephine slipped the cook book closer to herself too.

"What do you know? I can cook better than your brother," Samson said with a smile, "I've burned baked goods before though, so maybe that's a problem."

"I absolutely destroyed one of the stirring spoons at University so I disguised it as kindling for a fire while my roommate was away," Josephine recounted with a smirk, "When she returned she convinced herself that one of the ladies down the hall had stolen it. I never had the heart to tell her it was me. I bought a new one and told her I found it resting in one of the showers covered in bubbles. She… was not impressed." She suddenly jumped. "Goodness, it is time for sleep. I apologize for speaking for so long about myself. Thank you for the gifts, Ser Samson, even if they were not intended for me. I will see you tomorrow morning?"

"Sleep well, Lady Josephine." Samson gave a small lower of the head and smiled. "It is nice to see the Inquisition isn't wrecking your head."

She wouldn't know he'd bought the books for her.

"Sometimes I think it does," Josephine said shrewdly, "Goodnight."

He wasn't aware at that moment how well he would sleep.

* * *

"General." Susanne opened the door slowly. She was in a night dress, beige, short, with a head covering and somehow masculine despite the space for her cleavage, which she'd never had much of in the first place. A shawl and a small satchel were draped over her shoulders.

"Ser Samson to you, sister," Samson said calmly, getting more comfortable in his bed. At this hour, there were likely a lesser number of villagers that spotted Susanne enter the cottage.

"Thank you." The woman closed the door behind her and slid out of her slippers. "It is good to finally be able to converse with you."

The red had screwed up the insides of her body more than the outside, he knew instinctively. Physically, she had battle scars along her legs and arms, although some were self-inflicted. He remembered tearing her blade from her when she'd been hit with a sudden, inexplicable burst of despairing melancholy. Once she'd fallen asleep, he'd yelled at the other Red Templars in the tent who said they had been too sleepy to figure out what was going on. _No one leaves another brother or sister alone – never._

"You as well," Samson said. He didn't want to ignore their history anymore. "Can you tell me what I've missed now?"

"I plan to."

Susanne rattled her satchel proudly and withdrew a vial. More red lyrium!

Samson smiled, "You were incredible to drag yourself to my side with Maddox, sister. I cannot thank you enough."

The woman waited until she was sitting on the side of the bed before answering.

"It wasn't right to stay."

"Where you sleeping?"

"Knight Captain Cullen said I could sleep in one of his female soldier's communal tents," Susanne said, "I left the sleeping bag and armour there."

"Snuggle up to Maddox then," Samson pointed out. Everyone in the Red Templars knew that Maddox was the token snuggler.

She chuckled, "When I have nightmares he's a pleasant comfort. " She paused, "I don't know though. Your room is more spacious."

He could sense what was happening here. Samson took a deep breath. There had been a number of occasions where Susanne had come onto him, but she'd been fucked up on alcohol or red, and Samson had talked her out of it. She'd said the next day that she was really humiliated and didn't think about him like that.

This couldn't happen.

"You can get your sleeping bag and use the floor. It's comfy," he said, hoping that would mark the end of the conversation.

But it didn't. Susanne was persistent. Although, it was like she'd just skipped to the part where he rejected her in their previous discussions, "What is your reason for turning me away this time?"

"Same reasons as last time."

"Understood, General," she responded, dutifully, "I'm not intoxicated, neither have I taken too much red. I took my usual dose. There's not a drop impairing my thinking."

Samson understood this. He had seen it immediately, but he didn't want to be reminded of too much. The disappearance of his last lover was firmly entrenched in his mind, and perhaps he still felt loyal to her.

Each reason would be listed again.

"I'm too old for you."

"I'm 29 this year," Susanne said, "Faith and you had a greater age difference. That never bothered you."

Samson pretended he hadn't heard her. The age gap was less, but he didn't want to take advantage of her anyway.

"Don't ignore me," Susanne said, "Did the red kill the needs of your heart and your body? It has wrecked my cycles. They go heavy, terrible – debilitating pain, then I have nothing for months, and then it starts again. It makes me strong and then it makes me weak. Right now I feel strong, and have no doubt that I want you."

Samson finally looked at her, the mysterious eyes that the red had given her, but knowing it was still the same Susanne. She'd been one of the first Red Templars, and it gave him hope she was loyal and had run away with Maddox. Master knew how to scare people. Samson did too, but he didn't scare his Red Templars, "The times I turned you away I did not regret my choice, because you said you would have mourned doing anything with me. I was loyal to Faith, and I still am. But the red hadn't numbed _those_ wants. I still need it sometimes. But I'm no fool. I'm no dreamer. I'm not a human anymore. I'm just a mess. No one wants a mess. So it's stupid to try and pretend I'm something I'm not. I've tried to beat every bit of it out. I wish the red would take it from me."

"You're a _good_ mess," Susanne said, seemingly pleased she was getting somewhere, "You're like the chaos I used to leave in my bedroom in Kirkwall. My parents would scream at each other and I'd hear every insult and cuss word through the walls, but I'd lie under my covers, block my ears, hum really loud and be at peace with the mess in my room. Because the mess outside was so much worse. The disorder around me was clean, organized and tidy."

He appreciated these words, they made intuitive sense to him, yet Samson had a very acute knowingness of how empty he felt, "You're a loyal soldier, Ser Susanne. You're a good fighter. I'm so pleased you found me and I now have a plan. There's a piece of my past that still exists," He hesitated - he couldn't exactly ignore her logic anymore. But that still didn't make it right, "You're a radiant young woman, and you're tempting. I won't lie about that, blind loyalty to Faith or not. But I'm your General. That's a problem, _and_ I'm out of practice. That's a wreck."

"Everyone is fucking out of practice," Susanne said, her tone silky, "And you're not my General right now. You're the Herald of Andraste."

"I hate the title," Samson chided, "Don't ever call me that." He moved so he was under the covers and left a space for her. She did have a point with all her other counter arguments, "Climb under here but that's not permission to make anything more of it than what I allow."

"Yes, Ser Samson," Susanne's voice was wired for taking orders, even when the situation didn't even require it. Most of his Red Templars were like that.

They didn't do anything but spoon for a while. Samson was the big spoon, Susanne was the little spoon. He kept hold of her hands and told her not to move. She listened. He waited for his anxiety to dissipate. He had not taken enough of the red to get rid of his anxiety, but he knew that maybe if he took Brice's advice and made peace with the chaos it would eventually fade.

"Have you ever loved someone you shouldn't?" Susanne inquired.

"I don't think I should love anyone." Samson didn't want to talk about it. "What about in the Gallows?"  
Anything not to talk about himself.

"When I was 19 I kissed my roommate…"

"How did that happen?"

"I was very drunk," Susanne said, "but I loved her. The drinks just made me act out like a fool. I frightened her, though. It was a mistake. She was so overwhelmed she moved to another room."

It made sense that she got that way with more than just him, but it was still an unfortunate situation. "That's depressing."

"It isn't so bad," Susanne said, "The red makes my fantasies so vivid it is like I can change the world to match my own desires on cue."

 _Interesting_ , Samson thought. If the red had done this to other Red Templars, he had not been told. The next insinuation was obvious, "If I had that, I'd think about sex all the time."

"Yes," Susanne seemed to agree, "I had to be careful at first, because others would look at me strangely, but I practiced over many nights and months. I have sex hallucinations now and not make a single movement or sound to indicate I am."

Samson chuckled, "You could be experiencing one right now and I wouldn't know."

The woman didn't answer that, "I only started using it a lot once there were details missing in my life. Like when Wystan left. I used to create hallucinations about him… with us being together. I thought it would eradicate the fact he was no longer there, but it only made me cry. I couldn't feel the sadness, though I knew it must hurt somewhere. I must be broken _somewhere_ , so I stopped thinking about him in that way. It made me realize no matter how real hallucinations are, that it doesn't take away from what is real once it goes away. It can't replace the truth."

"You're probably right, sister," Samson admitted, "though it would be nice if what we wished could be real, sometimes."

"Yes."

What was the difference between hallucination and reality anyway? If Susanne hallucinated for the rest of their days, wouldn't that be reality? Possibly not if she created it all herself… the real world was not so predictable.

Silence fell, and Susanne pushed herself closer against him.

"The time I turned my sword on myself," she continued, "It was because the red took Wystan away. I hadn't felt anything for weeks and then it hit me all at once."

"I already knew that, Susanne,"

He understood the anguish, had guessed they'd had a thing going on. Wystan was also one of the first Red Templars and they'd been friends. "I hated when he left too. The red could have taken one of the trainees that were shit."

"You shouldn't say that about your soldiers."

"They're people, and there's lots of them," Samson said, "Some of them are assholes."

"Don't wish death on your soldiers," she repeated sternly, "Leave that for your enemies."

Samson hesitated, "You're right. Sorry." He let go of her hands. He was just angry Wystan was gone. "Have you ever had one of those hallucinations about me?"

He saw Susanne nod though he didn't see her face.

"What about?"

"I don't want to say," she replied, though Samson's hand followed hers as she started to take off her nightdress, "I want to remember what reality feels like."

The General held her at first, traced her curves and where one muscle met the next. He explored her more reserved flesh and didn't try to make anything more of it until Susanne asked him to.

When she did, her voice was numb and expressionless. It was to be expected of the woman, but Samson wasn't used to it. Faith used to be full of fire.

He took off his clothes as his erstwhile Gallows friend kissed him. She was awkward at kissing, maybe she'd forgotten how. Samson didn't mind teaching her. A rhythm happened eventually.

Susanne didn't flinch at the sight of his body and he thought she was quite striking, but he phrased it as:

"A charming creature such as yourself deserves to have whatever you want."

To which she said, "I want you, General."

Samson smiled and said, "You're lucky I'm so nice."

She was the sort of person who wouldn't catch a glance from a distance but if you looked carefully she had loveliness there. Her eyes had a red tinge now, but Samson remembered when they were plain chestnut. It was still the same spirit behind them.

"I thank the skies above for it."

"The Green sky?" Samson inquired.

"Yes," she said, "and thank _you_."

Samson thought he had reached the limits of atypical sex, and he had a long list to prove it to himself, but what followed created a new category, unusual in an unacquainted way. It was probably the red that made her joints move like a contortionist, like a bird soaring through obstacles no other of its flock accomplished. As hypnotizing as this was, no matter how wet and relaxed Susanne became, or how closely she held him, she did not make a sound. Even her breathing was kept under unmatched control. Was this what she had spent so many months perfecting?

Perhaps her ability to hallucinate on cue was not such a gift. The quiet was numbing.

"Just fake it," he encouraged her.

Susanne shook her head.

"So I can tell you haven't died on me. That you're still breathing."

No.

She reached out and gently encouraged his eyelids to close, as if to say 'Listen to what my body is telling you'.

Samson closed his eyes, to say, 'Okay.'

Very slowly, he naturally started melding with her, learning how her fingers, legs, hands, feet and every inch conveyed acceptance or dislike. Eventually, he lost the desire to talk at all.

With his kisses, he imparted that she was allowed to feel sentiments, she could express her needs for people and life. She was, however eccentric, safe. And she did the same for him. When her body went limp and she reached out in a primal vulnerability, he heard her lament the name of her dead lover.

Samson understood, for he said the name of somebody who he wasn't sure was dead or not, the splinter between reality and a dream.

He held onto her form, her sweat more like tears, her breaths sighs of peace, and savoured the silence of normalcy.

His eyelids drooped.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, not caring if he fell asleep like this.

"I do not regret anything," Susanne said.

Good.

"How 'bout your feelings?"

"I have no emotions," Susanne said, "I am above and beyond them. That is what is required. I complied with orders, General."

Samson slowly turned his head so he could look at her eyes, but they were shut. The words were sluggish, from his somnolence, "I didn't give you that order."

Though he thought he knew what had. It sounded too familiar.

He didn't grasp how to interpret his current state, or hers. The Red lyrium was good. It had been his friend from the beginning, even when he hadn't met Corypheus yet. Its influence was granted to him in the Gallows from Meredith's sword – _his_ rightful weapon. The Army marked him as their chosen.. Being used for a good reason, like saving the world, was something he could get behind. It was one means to an end that he had craved for years – an opportunity to put a real dent in Thedas and unravel all the crap conflicting ideologies that had wrecked the lives of the many… and the lives of the few, often forgotten by the lives of the many.

The lyrium had been good to _him_ , even if it had stolen life from some of his best soldiers. His body worked fine. Just now, he'd had charitable, yielding sex with no problems, even _felt_ how it awoke his brain and riveted his flesh. Susanne had too. He didn't have crystals growing all through his bones and transforming his body, warping his ability to feel physical sensations. He didn't turn into that breed of monster. He was grateful for that, always had been, and mourned the unlucky ones when it was due.

The lyrium was smart. When it started snaking into his brain and altering his mind it felt _right_. He'd avoided a whole lot of heart ache keeping away from the contact of other human beings. He didn't trust other people much anyway. The lyrium was making his life easier. Without the red, he wouldn't have met this woman next to him, or any of his other brothers and sisters. Sure, he heard voices in his head from time to time, but he'd had Maddox to help him. Maddox was the Red Templars rock. The sword smith always found the right words to say to remind people of what reality was, and he was a fucking Tranquil and shouldn't have any idea. He'd memorized a whole library, probably, but still. Maddox had never let the Red Templars down.

Samson had found ways to cope with the red lyirums more 'creepy' effects. He got way more benefit out of it then bad. Now he was going to need it to power up his ranks again. Why the fuck should he stop using it?

He still believed that a New World was important, that the truths about the origins of the Chant and full extent of the lyrium side effects had plenty of value. But Corypheus was a highly intelligent, wise, powerful, back-stabbing bastard. So maybe the General could share his knowledge, his legacy, with a _really_ _slow_ burgeoning flower for justice – the Inquisition. They wanted to make a new world too, even if they didn't know what it was yet. They hadn't gotten rid of him yet, even though they openly expressed their hatred. They needed his mark. And maybe up until now they didn't need _him_.

But the Red Templar General knew plenty they didn't. Samson was determined to make them need him _and_ the glowing green. See, it all led to something. The red lyrium had infested Thedas whether anybody liked it or not, so one might as well learn how to use it, like practicing how to lie and trick others.

Why then, with all that considered, did this moment with Susanne feel so completely _wrong_?

He fell asleep before finding out the answer.


	10. Haven V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta, Schattenriss. The next few chapters are dialogue based, so I hope you enjoy them!

There was a knock on the door. "Herald? You are needed for a meeting." It was the sullen voice of Cassandra. Why did she always have to sound grumpy? "Please, we would not wish for the snow to melt."

Samson moaned and rolled over to see Ser Susanne out of bed, back in her nightdress, shawl and slippers ready to return to her quarters. This was going to be an awkward encounter. He'd suspected Susanne would have departed earlier, that maybe she'd wake before him, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Perhaps she didn't care, as there weren't any jobs she'd been delegated, nor was the red lyrium one to enforce morals. Or in each other's company they'd hardly gotten any sleep. The notion of sex was so obvious a naïve virgin would be able to figure out why a woman was only leaving his room now.

"Coming," he called, and then before Ser Susanne had reached the door, "Don't mind the half-naked woman. She's with me."

"What?" Cassandra began, though her question was answered when Ser Susanne opened the door. With similar olive skin and dark hair, Susanne could have been Cassandra's younger cousin. The two regarded each other silently, scrutinizing each other as if in front of a mirror.

Snow billowed in from outside.

"Good morning," Susanne said pleasantly, peering around Cassandra, "Where does breakfast hide? In the snow?"

She always sounded so aloof it was impossible to tell if she was serious or joking. The Seeker glared, suspicious, and noticed some of Samson's clothes on the floor.

"I will show you where it is," she muttered through her teeth, then at Samson: "and if you are not in the meeting room after this lady has eaten her breakfast, it will be noted."

"What about _my_ breakfast?" Samson retorted.

"Eat it while we work," Cassandra said huffily, "There is no need to sulk. You had hours to eat. The village cattle are livelier than you are."

Ser Susanne tossed a final glance at Samson.

 _I will ask Maddox to prepare the red lyrium,_ her voice came into Samson's head.

Maybe he was imagining it.

"He may be unclothed, but don't let that concern you," Ser Susanne said, as she walked away.

Samson felt slightly proud of her for not shrinking down in Cassandra's presence, and possibly offending the Seeker, who marched away.

* * *

"You made it," said Cassandra, sipping at tea.

The War room was in a different state than Samson remembered. The large desk in the middle, which used to have a single book on it, now presented a large map with many markers. It might have been a tablecloth for the piles of papers balanced strategically where the markers weren't. A collection of quills, ink and the coasters sat near the mugs. Chairs were also haphazardly abandoned.

"A pleasure to see you. Good morning, Herald," added Josephine, with a courteous curtsey, "We sincerely hope you slept well."

The back of his hand covering his mouth, Samson was too busy chewing on bread to reply.

Cullen chuckled, though he had dark circles under his eyes, "I sure hope the woman you had with you slept well."

They knew.

The General peered at Cassandra, to Cullen, then to Josephine who wasn't looking at him. Cassandra must have told them. That nosy Seeker… Now Josephine probably thought he was in a relationship with Susanne, presumed he was a person with no sense for boundaries, a creep, or all of those things. If he had woken on time like he had in the Hinterlands, this wouldn't have been a problem. Stupid talking. Sex. Stupid. Were Susanne's midnight visits going to be frequent?

They'd find a way to get around this.

Leliana pushed Samson a letter from on top of a large pile, "We aim to get this done by lunchtime."

"It _will_ get done, Leliana," Cassandra affirmed, definite.

"Not to worry," Samson said. Now he had finished his mouthful he replied to Cullen's comment, "she slept very well."

Cullen's looked incredulous (or impressed?), but Josephine interrupted before he could ask for clarification on the reaction.

"A Lord Kildarn from Fereldan is having difficulty securing peace on his lands. It appears that among some refugees are apostates who are destroying what he holds dear. King Alistair's rule denies help. Do you have an opinion? We are having a lot of trouble coming to a conclusion ourselves."

Samson made a sound to imply he was listening, sipped water and looked over the letter. The script was slanted and fancy, though Josephine's looked better. This 'Lord' used words like 'faith', and 'praise the light'. Blockhead. But he also offered 'rewards'. Coin made a lot of things worth it, especially replying to a bloody letter. "He sounds like a moron, but if apostates are being shit and nice trees are getting ruined, I say we help. What do you think, Lady Josephine?"

The Ambassador seemed calmer they were talking of politics, "I would not use your words to describe him, he is more a pariah, and he is known for it among peers. It is better we refuse to assist, as it may cause greater concerns for the Inquisition in the long term."

"I disagree with Josie," Leliana said, "We can take advantage of his raving. My spies can harass the refugees into moving somewhere else to win Lord Kildarn's favour."

"Harassment to impress a lad, I like this idea," Samson noted.

"Your methods are hardly appropriate…" Cullen pointed out, talking to Samson and not Leliana, 'In _most_ cases."

On the subject of appropriate, hopefully Alexius hadn't started blabbing about the Red Templars in his sleep. Blight take it, that was someone else he had to talk to later.

"What is your brilliant countermeasure then, Cullen?" Cassandra challenged.

"We could send in a few patrols," he said, "I don't trust this Lord Kildarn. I'm with Samson. He is a bigoted idiot, though I disagree with the conclusion. I suggest we help the refugees." He sipped some of his tea. "It pains me we require a final opinion to make sense of it. Do you truly think Leliana's idea is best?'

It became clear on who he was dealing with here – a diplomat, focused on the Inquisition's image and long term prospects, a sneak, with spies who could induce quick solutions and not mind breaking the rules, and a Commander who preferred full frontal assaults. All these roles were important and there were times when their skills were better used. Here, Samson knew what to do, taking into account all their opinions. It was no different than being General and directing his army.

"It isn't the refugees being rubbish, but a few wrecked apostates," Samson reminded him, "I'm with Leliana. Get them out. We can help the refugees too while we're at it. Cullen, send your patrols to the nice little refugees. Josephine, let him know our plans in advance, and make sure you sign it how he did. That's important."

It felt good to micro manage and have a say in the outcomes again.

Cassandra stared at Samson while she rearranged some markers on the War Table, "I will not lie. I am impressed with how quickly you have… come to a conclusion."

 _Finally_ she took notice of one of his qualities.

"Thank you," Samson said, smirking in Cullen's direction, "And Seeker Cassandra, are you sure I can't finish my breakfast outside?"

"Please don't," she said and pushed the next letter toward him.

* * *

If it wasn't going to attract attention, Samson would have avoided eating and gone straight to talk to Alexius, but with a need for food and Solas' eyes on him he proceeded to the Singing Maiden instead. As though synchronized, Solas footsteps matched his until the apostate was meters from the door. The faint light from overcast did nothing to improve his dour expression.

"Good day, Herald," he said, calmly.

Something was not right about the unceremonious stance, or those sharp eyes. For a moment, the surrounding chill intensified.

"Good day," Samson said.

Not meeting Solas' eye, he stepped briskly and tried to reach the door.

Solas stopped in his path, ignoring the other patrons going to and fro the doors. What was this lad's problem? Not wanting to cause a scene Samson stopped too and met Solas' gaze, but the elf still made him nervous. It wasn't something he would have done if he could have gotten away with rudeness.

"How does it feel…" the mage began, "to be you, Herald?"

Samson scrutinized Solas before crossing his arms, "It doesn't feel like anything."

"Does that justify your refusal to seek my assistance in matters that are better arranged with my inclusion?" Solas said, testily.

Anger razed across him like a blade. Criticism was not an unknown to Samson, but the arrogance was. Solas wasn't only sulking from a lack of attention. A greater consequence seemed to be bothering him. However, he also figured if Solas was going to be blunt with his opinions, he would too. There was a very good reason why this mage's help had not been sought.

"You're creepy," Samson said, "I get the impression you know too much. I don't _want_ to understand what you do."

"I suppose I should watch my tone," Solas said, his tone unctuous, "I am speaking to the Chosen of Andraste. And you are not wrong, Herald. I have journeyed deep into the Fade and seen ancient ruins, battlefields and dreams of lost civilizations. But I wish to be your ally, not your enemy. I am curious to know what about my knowledge is silencing you."

Samson hesitated. He remembered the conversation that had occurred in his head before arriving in Haven, that Solas knew that Samson was a Red Templar. Was that true? Clarifying the detail was impossible for how chaotic the outcome would be, correct or not. Neither did he wish to talk about the fact he was potentially insane… but there was a way to simplify it.

He made sure no one in the immediate vicinity could hear him before continuing.

"Lyrium sometimes makes me hear voices," Samson explained in an undertone, "it's blighted confusing trying to figure out what is real and what isn't. And I don't like thinking about that. The more personal the details the voices say, the less I want to verify their reality because it's fucking embarrassing to explain. I've got enough to worry about as it is, without having that too. Pretty much, you make me feel like a nutcase."

"That is not unexpected, taking into account what I have learned of your history with lyrium," Solas said coolly, "Is that the truth? You hear voices in my presence?" he didn't wait for a reply, and peered off to the distance. "The Fade is a vast, magnificent plain. There is often reality mixed in with its many lies and illusions. I would not dismiss its content so readily."

That was _exactly_ what Samson was afraid of. If Solas knew Samson was General of the Red Templars, would he be locked up or kept under a closer gaze?

"Yes, my head is a chatterbox near you," he groaned, "Happy? Can I eat?"

"I see you are not ready to understand yourself, Herald," Solas said, "I can help you decipher truth from lies if your voices come from the Fade."

No.

"I don't need your help," Samson growled, "I can do it fine on my own."

Which was a complete lie and Solas knew it. The mage's eyebrows knit together in anger.

"Do you enjoy the worship?" he pressed, "Does it make you feel infallible? Or do you see them as fools gullible for their belief?"

"All of those," Samson said. He sighed. This mage wasn't going to go away unless he tried to cooperate, "Right now you're being mighty pushy and irritating, but I'll be kind. Share your infinite wisdom, apostate. How _do_ you tell what is real and what isn't?"

Internally Samson promised himself never to listen to whatever the reply would be. Solas' mood, however, seemed to allay.

"Any thought, idea or vision strong enough to withstand the rigors of time likely has an element of history intertwined with it."

"That only makes sense with recurring dreams. Kind of," Samson said, though he received a strong, painful feeling in his gut and he knew he couldn't think about it anymore.

"Yes, and I suspect those drive you to insanity," Solas theorized.

" _This_ is why I don't like talking to you," Samson protested. He had to work not to yell. "Did you not hear about how I ruddy went mental that night where Varric gave me drinks? Do you want that to happen again or something?"

"I have revisited the memory from the Fade," Solas explained, which Samson thought was a terrible breach of privacy. "I probably know more than anybody else who witnessed it, even yourself who could hear the conversations from a distance unobtainable by human ears."

"You spy on other people's memories in the Fade?" Samson repeated it slowly to see he hadn't been deluded about that too. "That is wicked, not to mention snooping. Do the others know about this?"

"Those who care to ask, yes," Solas said.

"And they don't think that's fucking cracked?" Samson shouted. His nose hissed as he inhaled, trying to stop himself yelling some more. Villagers passing by stared.

"My interests often direct me to ancient history, the wars and details of lives lost by time," Solas explained, "I do not spend my precious hours trying to understand a person's memories unless they are of interest to the Inquisition."

Samson was completely stumped. Hopefully, 'interest to the Inquisition' only referred to his mark. But what if it didn't? What if Solas knew more? He was furious and yet in the back of his mind a small niggle urged him to be polite, "Now what? You're going to taunt me? You want to turn me in?"

Jeering he could manage, but being thrown in prison again was a fate he sorely wished to avoid, no matter how brief.

"No, Herald," Solas said evenly, "I do not watch with judgemental eyes, only curious ones. I intend to assist you if you should ever require it. We fight a common enemy. It is foolish not to use information to our advantage."

Samson glared. While that was possibly true, since Corypheus was no better than Meredith now, he didn't like the thought that Solas had looked into his memories. Perhaps there were things there that Solas now knew better than him, Red Templars and the Elder One aside. The thought that another person could truly know him better than he could was unnerving.

"Congratulations," Samson scorned, "I wasn't chatting to you before because I found you freakish. Now I don't want to talk to you even more because you're a stalker with no respect for others privacy."

"Perhaps you are correct. I do not think like others do," the apostate said, "I believe you can relate to that sentiment?"

Samson could. They were the only words Solas had said so far that were comforting.

"Your memories, the ones that are merged and painted with others you have interacted with over your lifetime, have provided me with insight," Solas said, "I understand the source of your confusion. I see where it began, I can see why you do not want to revisit it, and I shudder at the comprehension of how many lives have been torn apart without your realising."

"You're not making me feel better, Chuckles," Samson said, recalling the nickname he overheard Varric using, "What was the point of bringing this up? Are you trying to prove something?"

"I only would like to provide you with guidance," Solas said.

"You a Chantry worshipper now?" Samson raised an eyebrow.

"No. I worship no one," Solas stated, "My desire is to assist you in understanding who you are."

"How's this for understanding?" Samson snapped, "I don't trust you. By the Golden City, stop with the smart ass 'look how much I know' rubbish. Let me tell you what I want you to get. You dawdle in your Inquisition group and do whatever Commander Cullen wants you to do. I will do the same for mine. We are not going to be talking so you better get used to it. For some reason if I am drunk enough to want to talk to you, I will approach _you_. There'll be no blocking my path or any other piss to get my attention. Is that agreed?"

"Very well," Solas said, reticent, "I'm sorry. It was selfish of me. I suppose I am impatient. When I have knowledge of what others do not, I wish that time would quicken to match it. Perhaps I misjudged your character. I see that you are not as sympathetic to your fellow outcasts as I should have believed."

"Not when they're bleeding stalkers, I'm not!" Samson shouted, forgetting that his voice might have carried through the windows.

"What is happening?" Cassandra demanded, probably seconds from getting lunch too, "Why are you disrupting… the path?"

"He's been poking around in my head without my permission," Samson said heftily, "I don't so much like it when people do that."

 _At least now,_ he thought, _I might not be off my face about that apostate._

"Solas…" Cassandra stared at the mage, "I told you not to speak to him about this."

Samson didn't know who to glare at first. Solas had discussed…what? And why was Cassandra suddenly involved?

His gaze settled somewhere on the dirt path in the middle of them.

"I understand, Cassandra," Solas said smoothly, "I will not approach him again. We had an agreement."

"Stick to your agreement, apostate," Samson spat.

"Good," Cassandra said. Her stern expression lessened, and she met Samson's eye with what might have been friendliness, "Now we would like to eat."

* * *

The Singing Maiden, compared to his first night here, was filled with younger sorts, parents, children and teens. Inquisition members did not appear so frequently. Maryden, he supposed, worked at night, for a male performer was here now. Deliberately avoiding Cassandra, as he didn't want to be berated by her either, Samson stepped to the corner where Varric was playing cards with Enchanter Brice.

"You shouldn't be so surprised, Smokey," the dwarf said, "Even if you practiced every day in that Circle I'm a couple of years ahead of you."

"I will perfect the art from you and show off in front of my friends," Brice explained, scooping the cards back into one pile. Awkwardly, Samson remembered the last time he played cards, where the images sent him messages. In hindsight, the symbols had not been entirely wrong: _something_ was out to get him.

Hopefully they wouldn't send any messages today.

"Hi, Loudmouth," Samson greeted, approaching the table, "Any idea what to eat in this place?"

"Anything with meat in it," Brice answered immediately.

Deciding he didn't want Varric's opinion after all, the Red Templar retreated to the bar to order something of that description.

When he returned, Brice swapped chairs with Samson.

"I heard a rumour from Dreamer earlier this morning," Varric began, with a sly expression on his face.

 _Maddox_ , Samson corrected internally, "What?"

"He said he spotted Birdy leaving your cottage this morning, and… well, it's been confirmed by many others too."

 _Dead Maker kill me,_ Samson thought, picking up his fork. At least in Kirkwall his private life had stayed that way. He glanced sideways, where Brice smirked, but tried to hide it.

They wanted details? No one was going to get them. Having the Herald sleep with an old Templar friend might be seen as crossing some foggy line, since no one could define what 'the Herald of Andraste' was good for besides making green clouds dissipate, but a General sleeping with his (until very recently) former soldier took the inappropriateness to a whole new level.

"Really? I had no idea," he made up some bullshit story, "Wonder what persuaded her to stroll into my room like that, uninvited."

Brice forced Samson's hand to impale his steak with the fork, "You're talking to a Gallows mage, where sneaking around is the norm, and a compulsive liar. Are you sure you didn't completely orchestrate the outcome beforehand?"

He groaned, "No, she did the orchestrating." Time to change the subject. "Where is she, anyway? I have stuff I need to talk to her about."

"Curly is taking her through drills and that sort of thing," Varric explained, "To check her fighting ability won't fail her next time she goes out to the Hinterlands."

"What?" Samson snapped.

"I have a bet Cassandra reckons you two would be best separated," Brice clarified.

"We're not children," Samson retorted. He cut up his meal into smaller pieces.

Varric laughed, "Adults with your level of disregard for social order and timetables? That's basically the same thing," he paused, "So what else have I missed in the meanwhile?"

At least the subject was going to be changed. Now he wasn't likely to be able to talk to Susanne about very much Red Templar related, at least, until he explained who had trained her to use the red lyrium and who Corypheus was. While chewing his food, Samson debated whether Varric or Brice would understand if he had been once involved with the enemy. He had to tell someone soon, or they were going to find out the terrible way by running into Red Templars.

"I have a question," he said, finally.

"Fire away, brother," Brice replied.

He hesitated. Speaking in hypotheticals first was best.

"Let's say Alexius agreed not to communicate with the Elder One, or, uh, yeah, that he decided to be loyal to the Inquisition," Samson began, slowly, "What would the Inquisition do with him? Keep him locked up, or put him to work?"

Varric made a high pitched sound like he was thinking about it, "With Roderick sticking his opinions into everything, I don't think any choice would be made and kept easily. You know how they argue all the time."

"Depends if he's honest about it, or just messing with us," Brice said.

"But how do you tell? Vints are good at lying, right?" Samson questioned.

"They'd keep a few hundred eyes on his every move," Varric clarified, "Even if he was allowed to help. I don't see Curly or Seeker agreeing to that, though - just a theory of mine."

 _Great,_ Samson thought, bitterly, then he peered up at Brice, _at least I might be able to tell one person._

"… if it was your choice?" Samson directed the question at Varric.

"Uh, I'm not great at trusting people at the best of times," Varric said, "I just hide it really well, but if they seemed genuine enough, fine, I'm all for redemption. I'll agree with Smokey."

"What would you do?" Brice asked.

Startled, Samson had to remind himself not to feel overly paranoid. Truth be told, he didn't trust Alexius much. For one, it wasn't clear why he'd surrendered in the first place. Perhaps, once he had the chance to talk to Alexius about not slipping his identity unnecessarily, he could inquire about this too, "I'd have to get to know him better first, but I'd say, if he isn't scum, I'd let him have some freedom."

His friends looked back at him with almost interested expressions.

As the song from the performer ended, scattered clapping destroyed any chance of conversation. Samson looked to the clock. He was meant to be meeting Josephine 'after lunch'… when exactly did she _have_ lunch?

Alexius might have to wait until after.

"What's got you so interested in what to do with the troublesome Venatori Magister?" Varric wondered, "You didn't seem to care before."

Samson looked at Varric to Brice, downtrodden. He _wanted_ to tell them. The more he could get on his side, the better. If anyone would understand, it seemed Team Kirkwall would, but… they were in the middle of a crowded tavern, and he didn't want to miss the opportunity to talk to Josephine. He'd have to talk to them alone, possibly… in the cottage? Or Varric's tent? He picked up some more steak, intending to eat it as fast as possible.

"Dunno," he lied, placing the food in his mouth.


	11. Haven VI

"Would you like one?"

Judging from how Josephine lifted a coffee mug from a steward's hands, she was offering him a chance to request a drink too. To his pleasure or dismay, Samson had never developed an inclination for coffee.

He sat down without glancing at the steward.

"No, thank you."

"Good day, Lady Montilyet."

The steward promptly departed, and Josephine watched as the door closed. Had she eaten lunch? If she had at her desk, there was no evidence of it.

"I have been working tirelessly to secure alliances with Ferelden," she explained, "although before we speak of the red lyrium, there is a matter I am pressured to verify, your Grace."

"Go ahead, Lady Josephine."

"Parties interested in forming alliances with the Inquisition, especially in Orlais, desire to learn about you, Ser Samson," Josephine said, looking mildly uncomfortable, "I hope you will forgive my invasiveness, but during your Hinterlands travels I sought Cullen's recommendation on how to respond. He relayed some… notions of your history and advised that it was… how do I begin?" she briefly avoided his eye. "I do not personally find the claims of…. your circumstances as details to condemn. I have communicated with many in similar situations over my life, and it makes it more impressive that you find yourself with the Inquisition at present."

Samson assumed she must be talking about his time asking for coin on the streets, as he wasn't sure Cullen actually knew about much else.

"What did he tell you, Lady Josephine?"

Josephine's face flushed, "He spoke of your… unfortunate situation of requesting donations from the public," she said it in a rush.

"Ah."

At least she didn't hate him, but Samson wasn't sure what else to think. It seemed strange that she didn't. Most made funny looks whenever it was brought up, so he tried not to mention it at all.

"It's kind of you to not think less of me."

"I do not think you should praise me so generously," Josephine said, still in apparent discomfort, "You see my kindness ends there, your Grace. While you were in the Hinterlands I personally -through much trial and error - created a falsified identity for you."

 _What?_ Samson thought, and he hoped the disdain wouldn't show on his face.

"It was an unfortunate though necessary project," Josephine continued, "How tiresome it has been! I would have preferred to have asked your permission, of course, but reputation, family and social standing are everything in Orlais. I would not want a detail so inconsequential to interfere with the work of so many…" she looked like she wanted to say something else but stopped. "It is crucial that we gain the favour of Orlais, and your history, sadly, would dissuade many of our potential allies." She took a deep breath. "Do you have any thoughts?"

Nice or bad ones?

 _Typical_ , Samson thought, as his hatred for humanity blared. This snobby attitude summarized everything he despised about upper class society. Because of some minor detail in a person's history, something outside of their control, they are shunned and scorned. Like usual, he kept his expression stolid.

Taking attention away from his opinion was best to calm his annoyance.

"How did you do that, Josephine?"

"Oh." Josephine appeared startled by his reaction. "I contacted my relatives with hopes of filling a hole in my family tree, so I reached for distant, near lost, ties. After many disappointments one of my uncles directed my attention to the family of his first wife – they are still on favourable speaking terms – who has residence in the Free Marches. Thankfully, they are removed enough from my family to avoid notice from those in higher society.'

"They won't spill that I'm not really related to them?"

"There is a chance of treachery, although the Inquisition will be keeping them under close watch. We have offered them many compensations, including refuge here, if they so wish."

It was hard not to chuckle at that. A fake family reunion? Family was such a foreign concept to him. It was odd to consider he might gain a sliver of one, even if it was insincere.

The Antivan looked suddenly sick. She avoided his eye, possibly in shame. "I deeply apologize for the inconvenience, your Grace. In preferable circumstances Orlais would celebrate how far you have come in such a short space of time. Unfortunately it does not align with their culture and customs." She turned to him. "I assume by your silence that you are displeased. Do you… understand why this precaution is necessary? I wished to verify you were still interested in serving the Inquisition before I reply to the Orlesian houses in full with a factually incorrect account of your story."

She pushed a piece of parchment across the desk. Even with the evidence right in front of him, it was difficult to believe. Her cursive depicted the Montiliyet's family tree, including how Samson had now been written into it, a half a dozen columns, squiggles and crosses out over from her. It contained information about that family's history, its members, likes and dislikes. If he agreed, Samson would be part of House Regnier in Markham of the Free Marches, a man raised in the Templar Order of Starkhaven.

There wasn't much choice. He needed the trust of the Inquisition if his Red Templars were going to have a chance of joining, so he couldn't leave anymore. At least, he had to wait until it seemed a good moment to talk about his Red Templars, and if it went sour he might be thrown from the Inquisition anyway. The fate of cooperation was preferable to walking out prematurely.

He didn't hate what Josephine had done, but Orlais… the fact its culture forced her to resort to these means in the first place.

He'd known that Orlais was corrupt, but not this much. Then again, maybe he shouldn't have expected any better.

"If you think that's best," Samson replied slowly, "I will pretend I am someone else for the sake of the Inquisition."

Despite wanting to, he couldn't say it with a smile.

"I am very sorry," Josephine said, "it was a delicate but inevitable precaution."

"I get it," Samson said, "It makes me…." he wanted to say 'hate Orlais even more' but he remembered how much Josephine liked it. He changed the thought to, "I find it disappointing that the folk we are making connections with are not as understanding as you are, Lady Josephine."

"You are too kind."

Samson stared at her. Surprisingly, she continued to appear remorseful. "I'm sorry that I had that reputation in Kirkwall. Begging isn't something I liked doing, but…"

"You do not need to explain," Josephine said hurriedly, placing her hands up to stop him. "It is not my business. I lived in Antiva city until I was fifteen, your Grace, and while the city is a jewel among the capitals, it has slums like any other city. It was disheartening to see them. I often got so frightened walking past with my family. The poverty was not something I had ever personally experienced. I felt dearly sorry for its people and their circumstances." She paused, thoughtful, and continued, "There was a man I came across every so often who repeatedly asked for clean drinking water. My mother, with me at markets at the time, told me over and over, 'No, do not give the stranger water.' But I remember thinking – it is just water, and what makes an impoverished person less deserving of water than us? She did not want to talk to me about it, but when I went out on my own I sometimes brought that man what he asked for. He was kind to me, but we never spoke. It does not bode well on my House – or any, for that matter - to approach the slums."

"I wanted to go to Antiva once," Samson said, reassured by her tale, "I like hearing about it."

"There is much I could tell you about it, if we had the time," Josephine admitted, "and perhaps I am mistaken, though by your tone I presume you do not wish to visit anymore?"

"Not really."

He wanted to tell her about Faith, as she wanted to visit Antiva too, but it was so blighted hard.

"If I have offended you, I apologize," Josephine said. She cleared her throat. "I have time restraints. I would prefer to stay… yes, on topic…" she turned to some of her notes. "To ensure I have not interpreted falsely, you agreed to memorize this fictionalized account of your past?"

Samson took a deep breath. After this there was no going back, "I will."

She looked like she was ready to rest on her desk, "By my ancestors I am pleased that is over. I was so fearful that you would show contempt toward me."

"I wouldn't do that, Lady Josephine." He wondered if Cullen had made him sound like an overly emotional person. "I knew a lot of folk in Kirkwall," Samson said, "I don't think your story will stay the same if anyone figures out I am here."

"That is why I am very pleased I am only referring to you as Herald in letters," Josephine said, "the story will be most useful, so thank you." She paused. "I have searched for information regarding your history and there is very little. I assume your family line is disjointed?"

"My parents never visited their other relatives," Samson said, "dunno if I ever knew the reason why. At the moment…I'm not sure my parents are alive." He hesitated. "I lost contact with them years ago and who knows what happened after the war broke out, but as far as I know they never learned how to fight. They probably didn't get out of Kirkwall." He looked at the parchment again. "Do I have to learn this before I visit Val Royeaux?"

"Yes," Josephine affirmed, "I fear that if I talk much more about it we will run out of time, but please ask Cassandra or Leliana questions if you have them. Before it slips my mind, are there any from Kirkwall that you would like brought into the Inquisition, those who I should inform about the changes in your circumstances, to prevent any upheaval?"

 _Red Templars, thieves, mercenaries, whores and mages…_ Samson considered answering, _the entire criminal syndicate…._

Maybe Josephine would understand his Red Templar situation.

"What do you think of Alexius, Lady Josephine?"

Josephine looked uncomfortable again, "I'm afraid how to manage captives is not my area. Perhaps you should ask…."

"I'm asking you, Lady Josephine."

There was a pause between them.

 _Tell me your blighted opinion, woman!_ Samson wanted to yell at her. Her strict professionalism wasn't something he was used to.

"Are you concerned for Alexius's well-being?"

Samson nearly snorted. No, he did not care... much.

Unable to share his actual reason for asking, it was time to lie.

"Yeah, I think being locked up is cruel," he said, "Maybe Alexius would do better doing something else… like helping you."

"Helping _me_?"

 _Why did I say that?_ Samson scolded himself.

"You're a level headed lady. I'd like to know your opinion."

Josephine bit her lip. "I do not know enough about the circumstances of Alexius's crime to make an informed decision. We have yet to discover why he surrendered to us. It is difficult to judge a person's character without knowing their motivations to make… kind choices."

"I'll find out and let you know," Samson reminded her. Then he wondered, _what is a kind choice?_

Josephine gave a small smile.

 _Yeah, I can probably tell her eventually_ , he decided. In answer to her original question, he settled on one contact that might be able to put the others in line, "Lady Elegant Cantrell, a herbalist in Lowtown in Kirkwall, married to – Blight take it, what was his name? – Lord Jasper Cantrell. She's very charming, useful lass and knows a lot more people than she lets on… but she might not be in Kirkwall anymore."

"We will see," Josephine replied, and she picked up her quill, "Do you know her address?"

Samson told her.

"We are running out of time to speak of the red lyrium. You are still able to talk to me about it, I hope?"

Samson resisted saying he would talk about it for her sake. "Yes."

Josephine took out parchment to write on. "I am aware of what Varric has told me about how your memory problem and…" she stopped writing, "How do you find it is different to the blue lyrium?"

He repeated the obvious, in as few words as he could. That it was stronger than the blue, that it had more powerful effects. He talked about the vivid dreams his Red Templar friends used to have, and tried not to mention himself.

"Your friends…" Josephine repeated, "For example, the Templar that Cassandra mentioned this morning?"

Samson's heart sank. Was she going to reprimand him for sleeping with one of his soldiers? Though, he remembered, no one knew he was Susanne's General.

"That's correct, Lady Josephine."

"Yes, I see… it… it should have been obvious to me." Josephine cleared her throat and wrote some notes as an attempt to look civil, "Were… are there many other Templars that take the red lyrium like the two of you?"

"A few," Samson said, deliberately keeping the details vague. "I imagine we might find some in our travels still."

"I understand. They could be useful allies, should we come across them…"

"Err…." He had to say _something_ , "A bunch of them don't like me. I'd be careful."

"Uh, yes, I see," Josephine awkwardly dotted something on her notes, "I apologize. I'm afraid I have to prepare for a meeting."

He stood out of the chair and they caught eyes. The Red Templar couldn't tell if Josephine was holding anger for him, disappointment, pity or something else.

Though he knew he didn't want to leave it that way. "Is, uh…"

He gulped as Josephine said, "Yes, your Grace?"

"You… don't think of me less after, um," he pretended to scratch a part of his face, "what Cassandra said?"

"What?" Josephine's eyes widened and she shook her head quickly, "No, not at all. Like with your past, Ser Samson, it is none of my business. Your personal affairs are your personal affairs."

"I… no one was supposed to know. I don't get why Cassandra told everyone."

"Cassandra has a lack of patience at times," Josephine said, "I think she was concerned you might have stayed up a lot later than was necessary. Perhaps she thought your Templar friend was the reason you woke up late."

She gave a glimpse of a cheeky smile.

Samson couldn't help but smile shrewdly back, "Maybe. I don't pay attention to how much time passes when in the company of pleasant others."

Josephine chuckled, "Then you should not ever work in my position where time is of the essence… and now gone."

"Probably not."

He left with the parchment in hand.

* * *

He ran his eyes over the second paragraph of the fictionalized story again, flattened out on a small table of the Singing Maiden. Since it was afternoon, it was thankfully a bit quieter, but he kept the glow of his hand out of sight. No one he recognized was around.

The details didn't sound too different from his actual story… minus unemployment and lyrium addiction. He sighed. That was just the point, wasn't it? He wasn't _allowed_ to be unemployed and addicted to lyrium. Like that was his fault!

If only he'd never been thrown out of the Gallows in the first place….

_Stupid Meredith._

Even with her dead, he was still angry about it… what did she say? "Mediocre recruit"… something else….

It would be worth it for Josephine. Samson was about to cover the paper to see if he could remember it, when a voice entered his ears.

"One lonely prisoner… now the fabled Herald of Andraste…"

Samson turned around to see Cassandra, slouched, halfway through a bottle of what looked like whiskey. From the lack of impeccable posture and clarity in her words, she was drunk. She stamped her hand on the table, "What…." she sipped at the bottle, "are you reading?"

"Homework," he replied. He held it out for her. "Lady Josephine made up a bunch of rubbish about my history. I gotta learn it all before leaving to Val Royeaux."

"How sad," Cassandra said, but her stare was mocking. "That is what you are, Samson. _Sad_." She raised her bottle, "A toast to you."

As much as he didn't like Cassandra, it wouldn't do much good to make another scene in a public place. Samson pulled out a chair for her and she reluctantly sat down.

He sipped at his water.

"Why're you drinking at this time of day?"

"I don't need a reason, unlike you," Cassandra stopped sneering. "You are a bother to me, Herald. I do not know how to deal with it. So I use this."

"I'm such a problem in your life, Seeker Cassandra. Why?" Samson mentioned, with a trickle of sarcasm, "I did well this morning. You were impressed. You were all _glorifying_ me. I saw."

Cassandra sighed. "I have a duty to the Maker… and you are getting in my way of displaying my – no… I wish to become more acquainted with you." Before Samson could raise an eyebrow she said, "I want to go to Val Royeaux with yourself and Leliana, but I know you won't allow it. Because…" she looked darkly over her drink, "you don't like me."

Samson smiled. Besides annoying him with mentioning Susanne, she wasn't too bad. At least she had enough observational skills to know they weren't friends.

"Poor Cassandra. You want to go to Orlais with _me_ … such a sad man." Samson allowed himself a moment to enjoy the thought of her grovelling. "Why should I let you? You will make things difficult for me."

"You make life horrible for _me_ ," Cassandra growled.

That was so completely wrong.

"Go have a shower and clear your big head," Samson advised, "then talk to me."

"No!" Cassandra said loudly. She almost slipped on the table. "I… I want to make the interactions between us more… more pleasant." Her voice was nervy and high pitched in places, "What can I do to make you agree to take me with you to Val Royeaux? We can't arrive in many groups like in the Hinterlands. It will cause more animosity."

"For one," Samson had a big list already planned in his head, "Explain why you told everyone about Susanne being in my bed and apologize."

He wasn't really humiliated by it, not really. He didn't care that Cullen or Leliana knew. There was still a worry about Josephine knowing though.

"I was irritated at you," Cassandra slurred, "because you do not seem to take the Inquisition seriously. It has been this way since we were introduced in that prison. From the start you have not demonstrated that you understand the magnitude of the world's madness."

"I understand the world's depravity," Samson said, "I hate it probably more than any of you, and I despise Seekers on principle of being associated with the Chantry, which I also hate. You're meant to uncover corruption but I haven't heard you do anything useful."

"What makes you think we don't do anything useful? Because you don't hear about it?" Cassandra demanded.

"I read history books in the Gallows, Seeker. I could debate with you for a week on the competency of certain ones," Samson countered, "I've spoken to plenty who know Seekers. When Kirkwall went to the dogs there was no one to stop it from happening. No one picked up something was twisted about Meredith when they should have, not until it was too late."

"There was not enough proof," Cassandra said, "All of the Knight Commander's accounts of blood magic turned out to be true. We could not reprimand her for doing her job correctly."

"She had issues as a _person_ and that isn't something you can read off cruddy pieces of parchment, no matter how many fancy words you shove in," Samson said, "it's something you have to see with your eyes and feel it inside. She hurt lots of mages _before_ they resorted to blood magic, and that's the stuff that isn't recorded, but you would have gotten the information by talking to others in the Circle."

Cassandra groaned and drank more. She must have realized the conversation wouldn't lead anywhere, as there was silence for a few moments. Then she said, "I am sorry for telling everyone about your Templar paramour. Now will you stop hating Seekers and criticizing the Order's every decision?"

"I won't promise to like Seekers," Samson said. He could argue about that all day. "I'm trying to not hate _you_ , Cassandra… and you don't sound sorry."

Cassandra crossed her arms and looked away. "I am sorry. I am certain if I was ever in that situation I would not want a person talking about it to anyone, although I hope you can try and wake up earlier in future."

"That's nicer." Samson accepted her apology. "The circumstances were unusual. We'd just gotten back from the Hinterlands. It was already late. I was about to sleep. She came into my room and I didn't ask her to be there."

Cassandra nearly slipped off the table. "Do you mean she approached _you_?"

"Yes," Samson leered at her, "she took the initiative. Women do that, you know, when they want something. I suppose that's not a dynamic you know much about?"

Cassandra blushed. "I do understand… what I don't understand… is whether you consider the Inquisition's efforts that of a circus?"

Samson sighed. After all the events in the Hinterlands, about how he probably couldn't return to Corypheus, the Inquisition was becoming less hateful.

"I am learning that it isn't a joke." He smirked. "Very slowly, but you're a little bit of a joke still. Unfortunate, isn't it? It's annoying that we hate each other."

"Yes," Cassandra said, "but criticisms of the Order aside, now I've apologized, will you agree for me to accompany you?"

It seemed too easy. Maybe it shouldn't be. She didn't seem to think of him as an equal, after all.

Samson tried to think of how else he could manipulate Cassandra under these circumstances. Was there any information he wanted or could get out of her?

"We're not on good terms yet, Cassandra," he mused, "I don't know a lot about you. I don't get how you know Cullen or anything."

"I recruited him for the Inquisition as Commander," Cassandra said, "that is how I know him. He…" she hesitated. "There is something he has been keeping from you…."

Now Cassandra was the one manipulating _him_. Bitch.

Somehow he didn't feel angry. He was intrigued. Was this the mystery information that everyone seemed to know about?

"Yeah?" Samson inquired, "I'll consider it more seriously if you tell me."

Cassandra moved her chair so she was positioned next to Samson and, swaying slightly, got very close to his face.

"He does not wish for you to know," she whispered, "but he has been lowering his doses of lyrium."

"What?"

Lyrium withdrawal. Samson should have known… no, he did wonder about it… but he didn't want it to be true. Knocking her arms in the process of lurching in his seat, Cassandra was nearly thrown off balance.

"He's going to stop taking it?"

"Yes," Cassandra said, "though I will be watching him, to see how he is faring."

Never had his anger been so immediate and ruthless. Withdrawal wasn't that simple. Anyone who believed it to be straightforward was completely stupid.

"Like that'll help!"

The Seeker raised an eyebrow, "Why would it not help?"

"What if he crumbles and falls when you're not there? You're not going to be surveying him all the time. You have shit to do - places to go, like Val Royeaux. How can… Cullen shouldn't be such a blockhead."

Cassandra was impeccably, and in Samson's opinion, _inappropriately_ calm. "He is decreasing his dosages slowly. It will be another week or two until he stops taking it completely. By the time we return from Val Royeaux he would have started complete withdrawal. It was organized this way deliberately."

Samson groaned and covered his face in his hands. She was right. Technically, there wasn't much to worry about right this second, but still… he couldn't ease his panic. Lyrium withdrawal was like a bomb that hadn't exploded yet. It was only a matter of time until it did and everything went wrong.

"I understand why he asked me not to tell you for as long as possible," Cassandra mused, observing his reaction.

"Have _you_ ever withdrawn from lyrium?" Samson tested.

"Only a very small portion of Seekers have withdrawn from lyrium, as they were once Templars," she admitted, "I am not one of those, though I met a small number who did. They are not the Chantry's preferred recruits. In the days of the first Inquisition when the Order was created they used to be more common, as Seekers and Templars were almost the same, but that is not common occurrence anymore. It is mostly kept for tradition's sake, for the sake of not excluding otherwise able warriors, and in emergency situations."

_Pfff, the Chantry is well versed in exclusion._

Samson didn't know why she'd gone on a tangent. He got déjà vu. Yes, he'd heard about this somewhere. A book, probably.

Annoyance overcame it. She was missing the point.

"If you don't know what it's like, what makes you think you are a good person to monitor Cullen?" Samson demanded, "You don't have any idea what you're looking for. You could ignore something critical."

"And the fact you are so emotional about it does not make you a suitable candidate either," Cassandra snapped, "like I said, he has not even begun and you are already panicking."

She was right. He knew it, but he also was sure he knew more about withdrawal than Cassandra did. As much as his and Cullen's interactions were like fire, suffering from withdrawals was not something he'd wish on anybody.

"Maybe I can help," Samson suggested.

"What?" Cassandra pursed her lips in consternation. "The Commander will likely be irritated with me if he discovers I told you."

"I'll tell him it was my fault then."

Cassandra seemed shocked, "You want to tell him I told you?"

"I do," Samson said. He looked determinedly at the door. Perhaps there was a way to help Cullen, and make him less stupid. "I'll go right now."

Before he could get out of his chair Cassandra snatched his arm and the piece of paper. She raised it like a flag. "You need to memorize this."

"I know!"

…Though he'd completely forgotten about it. He grabbed it, but her fingers stayed clasped onto him.

"And…" Cassandra's eyes were shining. "Can I go to Val Royeaux with you?"

"If we're in agreement we start from a clean slate from here on," Samson said, "as though nothing shit happened, all apologies accepted."

Cassandra smiled. "I can agree with that."

"Thanks for letting me know about Cullen." Samson told her, and he waved. "Go worship the Maker or something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schattenriss, thanks for being a great beta! His story "Departures" is an 'origin story' of his Inquisitor. I've found it a fun read. Check it out.  
> There was some in-game dialogue from Cassandra and Josephine, but I blended it.


	12. Haven VII

Samson arrived at the door to Cullen's office to find Cain at the Commander's side, overlooking notes on the desk. What kind of useless rubbish were they organizing?

The room remained a poor imitation of what it was supposed to be, with that rickety table that didn't look like a desk, and little room to stand in. Steam rose into the air from Cullen's mug – herbal tea with honey, it smelled like.

"Hello, Cain," Samson said politely. His gaze fell to Cullen. "Should I stroll past some other time?"

Cain seemed to notice the urgency in Samson's eyes, for he said, "I will return at a more opportune moment."

Cullen hesitated, perhaps abashed. "V-Very well. Thank you, Cain."

With a half-hearted smile and a nod, Cain left without even a goodbye. Were they talking of something sinister?

"I'd say sit down but someone stole the spare chair again," Cullen said sadly, scratching his head. "I guess there is the bed, if you really can't be bothered holding yourself upright."

The words drifted into nothing, as if Cullen was simply trying to fill the silence. Did he feel awkward too?

Samson tried to return the courtesy. He smiled and approached the desk. "I'll think on it."

He paused, thinking again over what to say – how not to sound like an aggressive tosser and get reprimanded. Cullen watched this happen with some uncertainty.

"Varric asked me about supplying red lyrium. I, rather reluctantly, agreed, if his plans for storage are appropriate…and security for it."

"Thank you," Samson said, bewildered.

"I heard you agreed to go to Val Royeaux the extra day too," he continued, "Thank you. It is reassuring to know you are taking steps to adequately prepare yourself. I am a little jealous I can't come."

_Because you'll be a sick Chantry dog, right?_

"You can't?" Samson probed, wondering if Cullen would explain about withdrawal without him having to mention it.

"There is quite a lot to do here, I'm afraid," Cullen said. His lips quivered into a sardonic smile, "but if you find any souvenirs to bring back it would be… flattering. Mad, yes, though pleasant madness all the same."

Samson smirked. Souvenirs… like what, exactly? Silk woven scarves out of anyone's price range? Some joke. For how much he disliked the city, he wasn't sure he'd buy anyone anything – not even Josephine. If he bought even food, that coin would support the region's economy, when destruction was preferable. Orlais was going to remain a bad memory after this trip, so bringing back a reminder would only prolong the nightmare.

Maybe he'd starve… or whinge. The latter was more likely.

"I had a question, Commander."

"Yes, Samson?" Cullen abandoned scrutinizing the papers on his desk.

Samson pressed his lips together for a moment. "Cassandra said you were slowly getting off the blue. Is it true?"

Cullen appeared mortified, and then flustered. A pause passed, maybe trying to form words, "She…."

"She wasn't meant to say," Samson acknowledged, "but I got it outta her. It isn't her fault I'm so persuasive."

"I doubt it has anything to do with that," Cullen blurted out. He still looked embarrassed.

The two caught eyes for a long while, tense and unyielding.

"Is it true or not, Cullen?"

It was surprisingly easier to keep calm now he'd reacted irrationally in front of Cassandra.

Cullen stepped back, avoiding Samson's eye.

"Yes, it is." The words were dull and lacking emphasis. "So… I suppose you came here to express your, erm…" He fell quiet, perhaps not knowing what he thought Samson might say. "Disquiet."

"I'm not happy about it," Samson affirmed, approaching Cullen's desk to read what he was working on, "I don't think it's a smart idea."

From upside down, it looked like a time table, but Cullen covered it.

"Do you think anything is a smart idea?" Cullen demanded, exasperated. "I know you're touchy about lyrium but that's no reason to get upset with _me_."

"I don't want something to happen to you, Cullen."

"You…" Cullen started the sentence as though about to lash out, but halted. "Did you say you are supporting me with this?"

"Course I am," Samson said, "No good being on it if you don't need to be."

Cullen's mouth hung open somewhat. "I… am at a loss of what to say. I wasn't sure how you would respond. I only thought it probably wouldn't be very nice."

"Cassandra dealt with most of that," Samson said, "but I'm not letting you get away with it that easy. Is Cassandra going to be keeping an eye on you all the time?"

"What? No," Cullen said, "Don't be ridiculous, Samson. She has plenty of work to do like everybody else."

The General's anxiety piqued once again. "How is that useful? It's like letting someone with a broken leg walk around without anything to lean against. It's dangerous."

Cullen sighed. His eyes were not condemning, nor impatient, only pained. "Samson, I'm sorry for perhaps seeming like I am against you but I am not. You are forgetting where you are. I am the Commander of the forces here. Many approach and talk to me every day. If my concentration lapses to the point of it being worrisome they will notice before Cassandra does, and likely, I will be alerted to any problems that way."

Samson frowned. That wasn't incorrect, yet he didn't like the thought of leaving anything up to chance. "I still reckon my expertise could be of use."

"Expertise?" Cullen gave a disbelieving chuckle. "Samson, the experiences of one person hardly encompasses everybody."

Samson clenched his hands into fists. Little did Cullen know he'd heard plenty of stories of those who had also gone off lyrium, not to mention met a few, and he'd seen what the red had done to his Templars. It wasn't nice.

Faith was right those many years ago, all her emotional outbursts aside… it wasn't clever to pretend one could control their withdrawal symptoms and get lax. "How many others know?"

"Enough." Cullen gave the quickest answer. "The others of the War Council know, of course. I also told Cain and have been teaching him a thing or two, in case he needs to take over for me."

Samson grasped some hope. Perhaps becoming Cain's mentor was something he could do. Also, he had to somehow test whether he could tell Cullen about the Red Templars and Corypheus. "I could instruct Cain on what to do."

"With commanding an army?" Cullen was half amazed, half amused, "May I remind you that you have other duties to attend to – and what in the name of Andraste makes you think you are qualified?"

Samson's concern augmented. He tried to figure out what Cullen was thinking, but all he glimpsed was ignorance. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Cullen. I've learned a bit about commanding troops in my time after the Chantry exploded."

Cullen's eyes widened with interest. "How? Did you read about it? Did somebody teach you? Someone you met during your travels?"

"You could say that," Samson said. This was as close as he was going to get describing Corypheus for one day. "I figured a lot of it out on my own, mind you. We're probably not that different in that sense…"

The Commander obviously didn't know how to feel about this. "Right, so even if I believed you…"

"Let me talk to Cain about it, Cullen," Samson said. "He can decide for himself what he thinks."

"…I'm sorry, Samson, but you have allies to meet and rifts to close with the Inquisition. It wouldn't be helpful for us to lose you temporarily for the sake of helping me."

Samson glared. "I only wanted to help. If your withdrawal was up to me, Cullen, you'd stop working the moment you took your last drop."

Cullen sighed. "I'll keep it in mind." He buried his head in his hands. "Maker's breath, I've been given enough information for now. I appreciate that you're not angry at me, but I will be speaking to Cassandra later. I…" he paused.

The blond now looked worried.

"What?" Samson inquired.

Cullen's face no longer glowered with suspicion, but lit up, hopeful. "I thought of how you might be able to help me."

Bewildered, Samson waited while Cullen went to his wardrobe and searched for something underneath a pile of books. He withdrew a box.

Samson knew immediately what it was the moment Cullen stepped back. It was the philtre equipment from the Gallows, just the same as his, except with more scratches and chunks taken out of the corners.

Cullen nearly raised an eyebrow, but it didn't quite get there. It twitched instead. "You look as though you want to tear it to pieces."

"Did you drag it here from that prison?" Samson demanded.

Cullen sniggered. "Yes. It has sentimental value, I suppose." His eyes swivelled to gaze upon it. "I'd like you to have it."

Why? To never take lyrium again from this day forward? Samson's mind raced with worry again. "You're not withdrawing from it now!"

Cullen pushed it closer. "There's nothing in it, you idiot. I stopped needing to use it once we retrieved a lyrium supplier. Their vials are far more efficient for measuring, since the lyrium composition is different. Rather suitable in this setting since so few have this… silly box."

He rattled it, as though it was broken. Samson couldn't understand why Cullen had held onto the box. When he left Kirkwall he abandoned his philtre equipment. When he was dismissed, he was instructed to return it. No doubt, having Meredith dead provided Cullen with some strange benefit of stealing what one wanted from the Circle.

"What does the Order mean to you now?"

"What's that?" Cullen seemed disoriented. "The Order? Oh… it's not what it was, to put it lightly. I have grown increasingly contemptuous toward it over the years. Clearly this war is proof that we cannot continue to run the Order as it is currently. I am unsure how to fix it. I am not sure we even can mend such a pervasive system. It remains to be seen."

 _Corypheus could have fixed it,_ Samson thought. He was annoyed that his master had abandoned him. He had to admit though… Cullen seemed to have finally learned something on his own. Something akin to pride welled inside. His former roommate was being slightly rebellious with this Inquisition business, which was unlike the Cullen he remembered.

Cautiously, Samson took the philtre from Cullen's fingers, as though it was a child.

"You hate the Order, but somehow the philtre is still important?" Samson wasn't sure what to believe anymore. "I don't get it. How will me keeping it help you?"

Cullen smiled so warmly it made Samson confused. What did that mean, and it annoyed him it felt familiar.

"I have no idea," he said airily, although Samson thought he was hiding something. "When you were no longer part of the Gallows, Meredith let me have the room to myself. It wasn't quite ever as comforting, and I consider myself a person who can entertain himself for hours with books." Cullen peered at the philtre in Samson's hands. "Regardless of my responsibilities as Knight Captain and terrible sleeping habits, I missed having a roommate. Sometimes I considered partially breaking mine and asking Meredith for another one just so I could put it next to where your bed was and pretend there was someone else who would return to take it."

Was Cullen trying to say he _missed_ Samson while he was out of the Gallows?

"But when I was reinstated I was put in with another," Samson said. He didn't like thinking about that too long considering his second roommate, Wystan, was no more.

"Yes." Cullen appeared morose. "I specifically told Meredith I didn't want to be around you. I thought it would be better for you to make a fresh start and meet some different people." From the guilty look in Cullen's eyes, perhaps he had regretted that decision. "Meredith didn't want you to get distracted, as well…" he said lifelessly.

Samson wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't remember many details of his first time in the Gallows. The extent of his knowledge was that it had been important and it had happened.

Unable to place why, the box that now lay in his hands almost seemed like a gift. Cullen hadn't explained why this would help him. Was that just an excuse to show support? Or an apology? It probably wasn't an encouragement for Samson to start downing lyrium at every opportunity. Figuring Cullen probably wouldn't explain, Samson said, "I'll take care of it. Is there anything else I can do?"

Cullen took a while to answer, probably foggy in thought. "I will make sure that I provide you with details on how my withdrawal is progressing, in case you have any advice. You may take on a similar role to Cassandra."

"Thank you."

Samson was honoured to have this position. In fact, he preferred this role to figurehead of the Inquisition.

"You may talk to Cain if you wish, to see what he thinks of your idea," Cullen said slowly, "although if you do take on a commanding role, it will likely be in case Cain is unable to. Maker, I hope that never happens. We have many rifts to close yet, and many people to meet. I will be asking for his opinion afterward."

"Alright."

There was something else he wasn't clear about. It couldn't hurt to mention it.

"I don't know if I'm imagining it or not, Cullen, but I get the impression everyone is in on something and hiding something from me. Was it the withdrawal?"

"What?" Cullen asked, appearing genuinely surprised. "I don't know how you got that idea."

Samson's suspicion must have been still apparent.

"How about you think about this logically, Samson?" the Commander continued, "what would we have to hide from you?"

How easy it would have been to punch Cullen in the face that very second.

 _Logic_ , like how Varric told him to think _logically_. He could still remember it lucidly.

_"What are the chances the… creepy whatever you want to call it… will actually kill you if you search your memories?"_

_"By the Blight, I don't know! What are the chances of a fucking rock making things fly across a room?!"_

_"Okay, okay…" Varric looked defensive. "Shit. Good point._ _"_

Well, at least in the dwarf's case the _logic_ had backfired.

Numbness penetrated the entire room, so much it felt like the office had no walls and instead they were in the snow, frigid and uncomfortable. Indeed, what did the Inquisition have to hide? That they thought he was mental? But he already knew he was messed up and the lyrium had done something to his mind. Hiding that didn't add anything. It wasn't anything new. And it wasn't _bad_.

"I don't know."

But not knowing was what was worrying about it.

Cullen looked almost pitying, "I do not mean to sound antagonistic," with every word, his voice got slower, "I don't know if you've noticed, but I suspect living out in Kirkwall for so long out of contact with the world has made you, at times, paranoid. It isn't what we need, and neither is it accurate to our intentions. Mine and the Inquisition's only goal is to help, not tear the world to pieces, and that includes you. Hiding would go against that very process."

It was like the whole conversation where Cullen was being nice hadn't happened. His knuckles went white against the philtre box. What kind of fucking rude comment was that? He wasn't _out of contact_ with the world. He was very much _in contact_ with the world – he just wasn't so in contact with his own head sometimes. They were very different concepts.

 _Help_ also felt like an insult. Chantry worshippers shoved their ideologies down other's throats and acted out violently in the name of generosity. Passers-by in Kirkwall didn't give him coin on the notion of 'help'. Refusing him coin for his 'own good' didn't mean they were actually kind or understood his circumstances.

All the insults Cullen had spewed about Samson on his first night in Haven returned to him. Did Cullen still think Samson couldn't make his own choices?

Having a suspicion Samson wasn't going to be rewarded with red lyrium for cooperating, he retorted, "I don't mean to sound like a git, Commander." Borrowing Cullen's patronizing wording, Samson knew this would sound nasty, but he didn't care anymore. He paced toward the door. "I may be paranoid sometimes. You would be too if you stopped living in your privileged cage for a few hours, but I am not naïve or blockheaded. Maybe you are telling the truth. Okay. If you are lying right now, you are a wanker, and if I find out, I will try very hard not to make it obvious – but I'll probably want to slice your throat for backstabbing me."

Maybe setting the philtre box on fire was suitable revenge.

Cullen's expression darkened, "You are not making a good case for yourself, Samson, but very well." He avoided Samson's eye. "I pray you reconsider your judgements. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

"Also," Samson paused. This was going to force his retort a few centimetres too deep. He knew, but all semblance of empathy had been eradicated, "The night you got in trouble for yelling outside Haven, I heard every word." And at Cullen's crestfallen expression, "That's right, Cullen. Every fucking insult - I lied and said I hadn't. What are you going to do about it?!"

* * *

The door closed with a rattle. Samson was not certain why he was holding a philtre for a moment. Did the traitor give this to spite him? In rage, his head ached and his pulse raced.

_Breathe. Think. Blink. BREATHE. Dead Maker's piss!_

The box seemed like a threat, whereas Cullen saying 'thank you' for Samson cooperating, agreeing to see if storing red lyrium was possible…. All details considered, if the ruddy box was an expression of affection, then why couldn't Samson shake the feeling that Cullen still despised him? Maybe this was bribery to make Samson forget how much Cullen hated him, to keep him stuck in the Inquisition forever.

Forcefully, he stomped away, as if to encourage his petulance out of his body and into the ground.

He groaned, as the unmistakable pull of a craving took hold of his body. He needed lyrium. Right now. Crap. Stress. It was because he was stressed. Fuck.

Why? He didn't care about Cullen. Why should he care about some Chantry worshipping, two faced bastard?

Because he _did_ care about the two faced, Chantry worshipping bastard… otherwise Samson would have never spoken to him about lyrium withdrawal at all, and just let him die from it.

Almost dropping it in the hurry to keep it away, he placed the philtre on a nearby bookshelf in the corridor. Looking at it was a reminder of his anarchy.

 _You're being paranoid_ , Samson told himself, _Cullen just said so_ , but his brain fought back. It was just so much like Cullen to tell Samson he was being paranoid to try keep whatever hidden information locked far away. He was such a goody goody, and an asshole.

Why had he been trusting in the first place? They could never co-exist. The two thought too differently - Cullen, in his high moral standards that were impossible to bend, and Samson, with his malleable sense of decency.

He wasn't paranoid. Cullen was hiding something. Samson _knew_ it. And he was such a bastard. Cullen said he was stupid and had no sense for the consequences for his behaviour. Bullshit.

Consequences be damned. He _knew_ the consequences, but simply didn't care, for one reason or another.

His spirit demanded lyrium. He wasn't even convinced it would make the craving dissipate anymore, or shed light on his mental haze, but he wanted it anyway. Where could he get some from?

Because the room was in such close proximity, Samson found himself knocking on the door to Josephine's office before any rational thought could stop him.

Josephine was so lovely. She would understand.

Did she say 'enter'? Must have. He heard something anyway.

There, her glorious, pretty face from behind the desk… he was one step closer to his agony ending.

"Ser Samson, hello again," she said. Leliana was in the other seat, "We are finalizing some details about the Haven Chantry at the moment. It is a momentous task. Is it urgent?"

_I don't know. Would setting things on fire be urgent?!_

Samson looked at Leliana, but found he didn't know how to interpret her facial expression anymore. He didn't _care_ what her reaction was. Lyrium was the ultimate goal.

"Yes, it is." Others said lyrium wasn't urgent – well, they were plain WRONG, "I won't waste your time for long, ladies."

"Finally you address us properly," Leliana said, with a small grin, "What is the matter?"

"I've been well behaved, haven't I?" Samson said, really hoping he looked innocent right now, "I've been a pleasant figurehead. I memorized half of the paper you gave me, Lady Josephine. I'm wondering if…"

"You want lyrium," Leliana deduced.

Samson nodded, "Yes, please."

Somehow, he desperately wished asking nicely was enough to receive such a thing, since experience told him it wasn't.

Josephine appeared worried. "Are you unwell? Is this the withdrawal?"

"Yes, it is bloody awful." He lied (only slightly). "The villagers are all carrying knives and want to stab me with them. I don't want to go outside. And the light is giving me a headache. It makes it so hard to concentrate. I feel all twisted inside, like I'll collapse."

Okay, that was a bigger lie. But people always said cravings were nothing. _Just ignore it. Just do something else._ They knew shit all about cravings, how it felt like one's body and brain were imploding upon themselves. He knew the truth wouldn't get anything.

Sweat covered his fingers and his mark crackled, as though sensing something was wrong.

"I don't believe you," Leliana said.

Samson kept his expression neutral, "Why not, Leliana?"

"Your demeanour does not match what Varric said you were behaving like the first night you arrived here," Leliana observed, "and you said that had never happened before. It is bizarre that you would get this way for no reason."

She was half right, but damned if he cared. Cravings had taken over, and they had a way of flattening any conscience he retained… or any coherent thought.

Plus, he was beginning to hate the word 'paranoid'. Losing any desire to be civil, his rage whirled out unimpeded.

"I CAN'T CONCENTRATE, LELIANA!" he shouted.

A look of defeat fell over Josephine. "I do not know what to do," Her imploring eyes turned to Leliana.

"I doubt that is new," Leliana directed this at Samson, "How did you fight it in the past?"

Samson did not want logical answers at the moment. His craving was screaming illogically, and that was far louder.

"I distracted myself," he said – and before he had the insight to stop, "by having sex, by exercising until I can't move anymore, showering until I am numb. But I hate it! It drains my soul to do all those things. Lyrium is quicker and easier."

As the full impact of what he had admitted had not reached his consciousness yet, to his utter amazement, Josephine flushed dark, and looked down at the desk, smiling slightly, "I'm afraid we cannot assist you with the first one."

"Your Templar friend might," Leliana added, with a smirk, "Or it is very cold. You could run for hours in the snow."

"Perfect! How about you do that yourself, Leliana!?" Samson yelled, "See how you like it! I'll probably kill myself from getting sick in a blizzard! And Susanne? No."

It took a very specific person who would agree to sleep with him on a whim, and he didn't think Susanne would appreciate it. He didn't want to try. That was too much effort – and not something he wanted to put her through.

An idea struck him - asking Susanne for lyrium. That was what he should have done originally.

"Listen to Varric tell stories," Leliana joked, "that will, according to him, almost have the same effect. Or drink so much you cannot tell your boots from your gloves."

"Leliana, drinking is not a viable solution," Josephine hissed back, upset.

The speculations on how to help him was flagellation. Samson groaned. Why had he come in here again?

Because he couldn't think… and stress… from the lack of LYRIUM!

And Cullen. Bastard. Could he tell them about that? Wouldn't they say he was paranoid too?

He didn't have the patience to explain it over again.

"Sorry to bother you, ladies," Samson said. He shrugged and twisted around, "I'll be going now."

"Wait, Ser Samson," Josephine raised her voice, "Would one vial suffice?"

_No. I feel like ten._

It didn't matter. Maddox or Susanne would help him later. He grinned, "Thank you very much."

As much as he wanted to leave after a few mouthfuls of blue, Josephine and Leliana asked him to stay until their meeting was over – leading him to wonder why he had trusted them. With the only spare seat taken, Samson stood against the wall. After bashing his arms backwards into the jagged brick as a distraction so many times it broke the skin, the self-harm caused enough worry (and bothering them with the noise) that they let him leave. The effect of being kicked out was unintentional, but appreciated all the same.

* * *

"Susanne," Samson said. He twirled the one vial of red in his pocket as they paced near The Singing Maiden, where the bustle and movement prevented eavesdroppers, "I wondered something this morning. Have you spoken to Maddox about lyrium, by any chance?"

"No. I haven't thought about it," Susanne said, "Would you like me to, General?"

 _Shit,_ Samson thought. Whatever had appeared in his head this morning was false – so how much more of it was? Was he imagining everything?

"When you have a second, but at least Loudmouth managed to convince Cullen to consider housing the red."

"It is strange to see you like this, Ser Samson," Susanne admitted. They stepped a few paces away from the tavern, as the music was rather loud, "You were always under control before."

"Yeah," Samson agreed. Being General was another story, "I also had coping strategies. It kept me busy."

"Wystan told me Faith used to help you before, too."

"Didn't realize you cared."

"Wystan guessed," Susanne disclosed.

"He's a good guesser."

Why had she mentioned it? No. He couldn't use Susanne like Faith. Their dynamic wasn't the same. That would take his immorality a step too far.

They both had work to do, so the conversation dwindled.

* * *

"Did a bear try to tear your limbs apart just now? I expected you to be fast enough to outrun them, with your heightened senses," Dorian observed from outside one of the tents, possibly his, "I am slightly disappointed I wasn't there to watch."

"Meh," Samson grunted, glancing quickly at the back of his arms. They looked badly scratched and slightly scabby. It would take too long to explain. At least the lyrium had chased away the cravings for now. "What you been up to?"

"The Inquisition members have left the choice to me, believe it or not," Dorian said, "For the moment I've been trying to decide whom in Tevinter is worth the ink to contact. I assure you, if any, the list is small. It seems I will be visiting the Storm Coast while you are in Val Royeaux. Apparently beginning a presence is still worth the resources it takes to travel."

"At least you'll have the ocean," Samson said, slightly nostalgic for it. It would be weird going to Val Royeaux with no one who knew about him – just like he was starting all over again. "You spoke to Alexius yet?"

"Enough to remind him to keep silent about your side of things," Dorian said, in an undertone, "Apart from that he has proven himself to be less interesting than a footprint."

"I'll talk to him," Samson said. It would be close to dinner soon – by the Black City this day was exhausting.

* * *

Alexius was behind bars underneath the Chantry – if that wasn't a great metaphor for their unwholesome ways, then what was?

"You arrive here to mock me, Knight Templar Samson?" Alexius sneered. Seated and on the ground of his cell, the man appeared diminutive and weak. His complexion probably looked close to how Samson did – insipid and sallow. The robes he'd arrived in were smudged with muck and gave off the putrid scent of grime around the edges of a pond.

The walls glittered somewhat eerily, from the condensation and limited sources of light. It reminded Samson of the prison he'd first met Cassandra in, from the mix of moisture and stone, as though he'd unearthed a book after a rainstorm. Thankfully, there was no one else here for the moment.

"I did plenty of that already," Samson said, approaching him. "I've had enough of it."

The Magister frowned, disbelieving.

"It isn't fair to mock you, Alexius," Samson said, trying to bring the smoothness back into his voice. "Dorian said you've been keeping quiet about me. Thank you."

He crouched down to his knees, to lower the volume. Alexius, it seemed, made little effort to keep quiet. They were a forearm length away now.

"You cannot keep it hidden for long," he said wearily, "I do not suggest you aim to, unless you wish to fail. Perhaps that is why I agreed."

True.

"So long as you shut your mouth."

"What are you hoping to achieve with the Inquisition?" Alexius asked.

"I told you," Samson said, "Why don't you believe me?"

"Your Red Templars are freaks of nature. You cannot expect me to believe that was done out of an altruistic motive."

Samson paused. This wasn't directly the case, "Short term sacrifice for long term gain."

"A very cruel short term sacrifice, if that is how you choose to name it," Alexius mused.

"I told them what they were in for, _all_ of them," Samson countered, "They made their choice."

"With the utmost respect, Herald, I do not agree with your choice to provide them with that option."

It was so hard not to spit on Alexius out of spite. What a way to point out the obvious. That _was_ the reason they were separated into Venatori and Red Templars – the goals were different.

"Stop changing the subject," Samson criticized, "You going to talk yet about why you surrendered to us? Until you do, you're no better than me."

Alexius looked morosely at the ground.

"What? What do you gain by keeping it secret?" Samson snapped, "I'd like to let you out of these bars if I can, but I need to be able to convince them."

"You won't be able to convince them," Alexius said, "Not until you sway their faith in you. I will not pretend I believe that is a possible goal. It is the choice of fools."

"Telling them I'm General won't help that," Samson argued, "Following master wasn't an impossible goal, and yet getting them to trust me is?"

Alexius didn't answer.

"Can you tell me? Then I'll see what I can do."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"Why not?!" Samson snarled.

"No matter what I do, I will lose what I care most for," Alexius mumbled, "And until you inform your Inquisition of whom you used to serve, I will not share what I saw."

"You're testing me?"

"I do not care about your fate, Raleigh Samson," Alexius said in a dull voice, "though none of your endeavours will have importance until you stop hiding from your own choices."

The expression of Samson's full name made him cringe. "I have good reason to!"

Maybe Dorian could help him guess what Alexius was talking about. In the silence, where footsteps were heard beyond the cell from one of the other rooms, Alexius examined Samson's eyes with displeasure.

"And so do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Schattenriss. Don't worry, guys. There isn't much more of Haven. Please review. I'd love to know what you think, or if there are any suggestions.


	13. The Imperial Highway I

Finally this day was coming to an end. Just sitting in the Chantry dining hall made him feel sick. The few torches set an orange glow and cast dark shadows. Samson remembered something else he neglected to mention in the Hinterlands, "Do you want to learn more about the red lyrium, Cain?"

"I do as much as anyone," Cain answered from opposite him, "Not to the extent that I want to consume it."

 _Damn it,_ Samson thought, disheartened. Having one more in Haven who could understand the red lyrium would have been reassuring. Though his desire not to force it on anyone was far more powerful an influence, "You'll let Cullen know you're fine for me to replace you if something happens?"

Cain nodded, his mouth full.

Feeling more at ease, Samson looked over the crowd, and spotted Leliana frown very obviously at his direction from her place on the bench.

 _What's your problem?_ He hoped to convey this in his face. She raised her eyebrows, as if to tell him to talk to her, and Samson sighed. Couldn't the world leave him alone?

The reason for her stalking him was rather obvious when Samson sat next to her after finishing eating. Leliana lifted a philtre box from on her knees and placed it on the table, "The Commander seemed rather irritated when I asked why the box had gone for a walk. He told me to ask you."

Samson groaned, "To the void with it! It's just a fucking box. Your precious Commander was being sentimental, and I'm not sentimental!"

This would have been the perfect moment to engulf the box in flames. After all, it was the right time of night and fires were being made outside. If only the villagers could temporarily look away while he indulged in pyromania…

Leliana did not look amused, "You clearly are. If it is just a box, then take it away before Cullen realizes you fall back on your promises so easily. He might request I spy on you."

Samson begrudgingly took the box back, "Didn't mean to forget it," then somewhat flirtatiously, "But out of everyone in the Inquisition, I wouldn't mind you spying on me."

Leliana gave a conspicuous smirk, "For a member of the Inquisition, at least you would be entertaining to watch for how explosive you become over boxes."

"Ha. Ha." He couldn't tell if he was trying to mock himself or Leliana with his tone.

Wanting to avoid any more drama over Cullen – the fucking twat- and to let Leliana know her sense of humour was not appreciated right now, Samson promptly left to his cottage, remembering the philtre box this time.

* * *

Outside of talking to Josephine, Samson didn't bring Faith to mind, for it was depressing. However, when he approached Cullen's side to observe his delegating instructions to the soldiers training, the facial expression and passive aggressive demeanour were too similar.

All of a sudden he was back in that run down, dusty, tiny house, sitting at a minute dinner table that also seemed to collect the useless notes a kitchen top did. Faith looked as pretty and dignified as she always did from opposite him – make up, hair and appearance perfected to the finest detail. In hindsight, it was rather amusing that besides the lyrium in her cabinet, her most expensive possessions were literally _on_ her.

Back then, oh… he was so naïve.

_"Princess, I adore your cooking, but…"_

_"Thank you," she replied, pushing her dark hair behind an ear._

_"But can we put more coin toward food? I'm sick of having the same shit week per week."_

_Faith's electric blue eyes still made him feel hypnotized, even when recollecting some of their terrible moments. "I'd love to hear any ideas you have for meal preparation. I didn't force you to eat it. You don't have to live here."_

_They both knew he didn't know any recipes besides what she made, so he replied, "It doesn't have to be much. Change the spices or something."_

_"Spend your own fucking money on it," she snapped._

_"Fine -I will!"_

Dealing with angry Faith was usually to yell back. Sometimes he used sarcasm, teasing or insults. Her insults were exponentially worse than whatever he could come up with, which fueled a drive to outsmart her. It was a big competition to see who could win the argument or stomp on the other's ego the most. When Faith was in one of her more twisted moods she turned their arguments into sex and even then, someone had to win. Usually, Samson did (Faith would disagree).

Teasing seemed like the most appropriate method to manage Cullen right now. Samson waited until Cullen stood well away from the soldiers before saying, "Upset about your box, Cullen?"

Cullen gave a small laugh, "I am not so small minded that I care about a box."

 _Yes, you do,_ Samson thought, "It's sitting above my fireplace right now- got a good view of the flames from up there. I think it's happy."

"I'm sure it is." Cullen didn't roll his eyes, but by the Elder One, Faith _would have_ if he dangled her favourite pair of custom made heels over the fireplace.

He prodded Cullen, "Are you cranky at me?"

The Commander called out some instructions before answering, "No. I didn't appreciate your yelling the other day, though I understand why you would. My apology from before still stands."

"But you don't take back what you said?"

Cullen exhaled slowly, in a very calculated 'I hate you, please die' manner, "If you can demonstrate in the following weeks that you are capable of anything else, I will take it back."

A challenge. A game. He would win!

"You will."

"I will decide that," Cullen said.

"I don't live to worship your boots, Cullen," Samson muttered, "I don't… I will prove you wrong."

Remembering that there were actual consequences for being an asshole, Samson left, cursing Faith for encouraging his temper sometimes, as well intentioned as her distractions may have been.

* * *

His throat burned as Samson leaned against the exterior wall of the Singing Maiden. He'd swallowed back down reflux, and felt like toppling over. Varric kicked snow, perhaps trying to keep moving in the cold.

"Didn't you learn anything from the last time you did this?" Varric asked, "Are you trying to get hung over deliberately every time you need to do important Inquisition business?"

"No," Samson croaked, "but I don't care."

Varric sighed and tightened Bianca over his shoulder, "What would you say is your level of sanity right now, from seven to fifteen. I'll assume, to play fair, that everyone here's a bit nuts."

"Don't…" Samson grabbed onto the dwarf's tunic, "ditch me."

"Hey, I'm not going to leave." The storyteller grinned. "A little bit of honesty goes a long way, Raleigh."

"Six and a half," Samson said. The lack of people out here made him less claustrophobic.

"I suppose that's an improvement. What would you like to do?"

Samson wanted to get away from as many people as possible. "Let's climb a hill."

"Raleigh, I don't think I have heard of a worse idea at this hour."

"Come on, Varric! Let's go for a hike!"

"By my Ancestors," Varric sighed, "Fine. I won't let Bianca miss this."

* * *

 

"No." Varric pulled Samson's jacket, to stop him sprinting up one of the hills. "You haven't seen how disproportionally terrifying the bears grow to around here?"

"Bears?" Samson didn't believe it. He started to race up the same slope. "I can take them."

Luckily, Varric still had his grip on the jacket and tugged.

"No, no, Raleigh. I don't care what creepy powers you have. It takes a team of people to take down a bear, and Curly will kill me if something happens to you." Samson gave up trying to escape, and they started to walk. "I didn't think you were the type to enjoy walking in the middle of nowhere like this."

The real reason was Samson had been debating whether or not to delay telling anyone about his being a Red Templar General until after Val Royeaux. After all, that task would prove his loyalty and maybe they'd be less likely to be frustrated. Hell, he had to tell _someone_. Varric was the best option, and he was running out of time.

"I hate people," Samson said, which was also true.

"They're only terrible sometimes," Varric agreed, "the ones here are not bad."

Samson snorted. 'Not bad' didn't mean 'good'. He swerved to avoid a thin branched tree.

"Thanks for trying to figure out how to store Red lyrium," Samson said, "I get it'll take a while."

"Yeah, at least a month to build the storage," Varric replied, "Once we get the right people. A lot of coin's put into it."

"Thanks anyway."

A pause, "What's the most wretched choice you've ever done, Varric?"

"The worst choice I've _made_? I won't tell you, but the worst thing I've ever done…" then at Samson's glare. "Killed my brother. It may have been a mercy kill, but it was still a life I took away. I've done other things I'm not proud of too, with the Champion of Kirkwall – but I like to blame those on Bianca. Why?"

"I need to tell you something you will hate me for," Samson said, flatly. He didn't _feel_ nervous to say it, he had just been conflicted on whether to say it or not.

Varric's expression filled with suspicion. He must have realized that Samson wasn't exaggerating. "Alright, what variation on terrible should I prepare myself for? Shoot myself in the head?"

"Shit," Samson didn't intend to be thinking out loud, "What I mean is, yeah, you'll hate it, but I need to tell you…. It's important - has weight on what this Inquisition is plotting.'

The rustle of wind spread snowflakes in all directions for a moment, as though nature itself was attempting to escape the conversation.

"I should have grabbed another drink," Varric sounded regretful and apprehensive.

"At least you understand that much," Samson praised him. He stumbled on a tree root buried in snow. "This is why I like you, Loudmouth. You're nice. You get me a bit better than the others. If I say something depraved, you understand I'm telling the truth…. You don't think I'm paranoid, except for that one time."

"Look, if we really want to play the honesty card… the only person I've met more paranoid than you is Knight Commander Meredith. But I'll give you some credit- you are not like that constantly."

"SHUT UP!" Samson shouted. "How dare you…. say her name to me."

"There's no need to get mad," Varric said, "Yeah, okay… so break the suspense, Raleigh. What's the horrible crime you've committed? Did you start the fifth Blight or something?"

Samson sniggered. That did sound exciting. "You know Ser Susanne and Maddox?"

"Not as thoroughly as you, but they're important to the story?"

"They are few of a larger army that take the red lyrium. I started them, I was their General. I was what Cullen is to this Inquisition."

"You commanded a whole army? Andraste's ass. I'm…" Varric hesitated. "I don't see how this is bad for the Inquisition. I mean, what for? If they can be brought over here…"

"I'm going to try, but…" Samson fumbled speaking, "besides, uh, the reason it is a problem is because they are… on Alexius's side."

"Wait, wait, wait –to check my ears are working- are you trying to say that before the Conclave you were the _enemy_?"

"Shhh!" Samson slapped out a hand to cover Varric's mouth, but it was easily hit away. He tried to read Varric's expression, but it was hard in the dark, "Yeah. I'm not anymore. Alexius told me the uh… the one that leads both of our armies wants to kill me. I want to kill him… first! Bastard!"

The dwarf had gone silent, which Samson interpreted as permission to keep talking, "The Red Templars will probably want to kill us. But… haha, everyone wants to spear me… but I don't remember anything of the Conclave. Really, Loudmouth. I promise- a real promise."

"Shit," Varric went blank for a few moments, "I – I'm not going to deny it is useful you told me, it is… I don't know, I try not to judge. I don't understand why…"

"Ask Dorian to explain," Samson interjected, "I gave him a brief overview."

"Sparkler knows?!"

"Yeah. When I went to Redcliffe castle Alexius had a chat to me about it all."

"Before then were you still on his side?"

"I wasn't really on anyone's."

It was easier to explain it that way.

"Great."

"What?"

"I don't believe this is necessarily a bad outcome, but I can't speak for anyone else."

"I know."

"If Curly or the Seeker hear about this…"

"You reckon they'd try to chop off my head?"

"Hell, I don't know. They'd probably have heart attacks."

"You think they'd get over it?"

Varric looked uncomfortable, "I don't know them well enough to say, but they wouldn't throw you out."

"That narrows my fate down SO MUCH!"

"They need you so their mental anguish might be contained within a small space," Varric concluded, "Have you told anyone else?"

"You're the first," Samson said, "Don't know who else. What about Brice and Josephine, when I come back from Val Royeaux?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'll talk to Sparkler more about it tomorrow."

"Good idea. Let me know if you come up with a plan while I'm gone."

"Sure. I have a question.'

"What?"

The front Haven gates were visible from the distance. They should probably go back.

"How'd you go from a guy asking for other's money, to the leader of an army?"

Samson sighed. It was a straightforward story, as far as his stories went, though he didn't want to include Corypheus yet, "I'll tell you another time."

* * *

"Remind the Herald where precisely we are visiting, Leliana," Cassandra said, as they forded a half melted river. Apart from Leliana and himself, no others had joined them– apparently, the women were confident about travelling around this area. Since Orlais was on the lookout for the Inquisition, it was much safer to be a small group.

"We are staying at an Inn within walking distance west from the Grand Cathedral, and then meeting our attendants at a café nearby." Leliana turned to Samson. "The Commander agreed that this would be a favourable way to introduce the city."

"Do either of you know who this mystery tutor is?" Samson asked.

Leliana and Casandra looked at each other.

"Yes, of course. There is more than one, and they are no ordinary tutors." Leliana said playfully. "Cassandra and I encountered them very briefly before starting the Inquisition. They are Seekers."

A vein in Samson's temple pulsed. Why was Cullen making this so difficult? He _hated_ Seekers.

"And you will pretend to adore them," Cassandra added sternly, upon seeing his expression.

Leliana, possibly amused by his resistance, continued, "When Cullen was Knight Commander of the Gallows he came across them while Varric was being interrogated about the Champion of Kirkwall. Cassandra and I rested in Chantry quarters during our stay too. They might know more about how the Grand Clerics can be swayed, so it would be foolish to decline the opportunity to meet them beforehand."

"If they were in Kirkwall the same time as you two, then how come you got separated?" Samson wondered.

"The Mage-Templar uprising separated many," Cassandra answered, "All factions of the Chantry were divided. Leliana and I, as Divine Justinia's Left and Right Hands, stayed at her side to help plan the Conclave and attempt to settle the revolt, but that work was strictly kept within the Her Most Holy's trusted. Seekers already have more freedom than Templars. They have their own duties to the Maker, so only they alone can know their true calling."

Samson was shocked Cassandra and Leliana were so close to the Divine. He always assumed that the higher up in ranks one went in the Chantry or society, the easier it would be to find corrupted souls, but these two ladies seemed fine. At least, they weren't what he called selfish. The reference to religion was unneeded, but he understood the sentiment. If Cassandra didn't know the Seekers very well Corypheus could be afoot – there were a number of Seekers that were recruited for the cause. Maybe meeting them was bad, "Are you sure they're trustworthy?"

Cassandra replied, "I am certain we will not encounter any animosity."

"My agents have been watching them and there is no problem," Leliana assured him.

Samson wondered what kind of world he lived in- where he only felt calm enough to meet strangers if they had been followed and spied on first, "Thanks, Leliana. Any information you can give me about them, so I don't say something inappropriate?"

"Any knowledge you could acquire from Leliana would be worthless, as your goal in the Inquisition is to be inappropriate," Cassandra said with a mocking smile.

"That is missing the idea, Cassandra," Leliana countered.

"Shut it, you," Samson tried to pull a smaller branch from a tree, to possibly throw it at her, but gave up.

"One of the Seekers is Seeker Evitt - she is radiant, humble and knows the Chant as faultless as I do," Leliana said, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Does she look as faultless as you, Leliana?" Samson sneered (only he could make a compliment sound demeaning).

"No, not at all," Leliana dismissed the comment with an appreciative grin.

"Only got the unattractive knowledge of Chantry ways, right? Pah. Not interested."

"URG," groaned Cassandra.

"Seeker Elizabeth is less serious, though when she fights you would not think so," Leliana continued, apparently amused by Cassandra, "The male Seekers, even lesser men who visited the Grand Cathedral called them _Les Soeurs éclatant,_ because they always do everything together and do it quick and skilful like a bolt of lightning."

"The men also desire to court them." The Nevarran suddenly seemed disgusted at the thought. "It is a form of flattery, as _eclatant_ can mean 'glowing'. I would think very carefully before complimenting them in this way."

"Don't think about it at all," Leliana warned, "Unless you have no need for your head."

"They sound like they know how to fight," Samson said with a smile. Looks and the ability to memorize the Chant he didn't give a toss about, not really. He had to stop himself from making a lewd comment, as Cassandra seemed to be getting irritated.

"A Seeker is trained more rigorously than a Templar," Cassandra corrected, "it is hardly a surprise that they have earned such a title."

"Now." Leliana smirked, "We teach you Orleasian."

_Why is life so cruel?_

* * *

At camp they decided to squish into the one tent, as it would be less tiresome than setting up three separate ones. The horses were resting two trees over from them. As they pegged each bit of rope in place, the top of the tent held up by a tree, the conversation went something like this.

"Who's taking first watch?" Samson inquired.

"You can, if Leliana will not shut up," Cassandra spat. The travelling time appeared to have destroyed her patience.

"We don't need it," Leliana said, "We are not carrying anything worth stealing, and honestly, my agents are probably nearby."

"You brought them here?" Cassandra said, aghast, looking over her shoulder as if she expected one to materialize.

"Many have residence in Orlais," Leliana explained, "I told a few we were arriving, and what route we would be travelling, so they will be looking out for us."

"If you are certain," Cassandra said darkly.

Cassandra and Leliana changed inside the tent while Samson put out the last of the fire, removed his many layers behind some trees, and carried it to the tent. Once he crouched down and entered the tent, he was surprised with how little space there was. Three bed rolls and separate blankets were organized side by side, evident by the small lantern hanging from some rope above their heads. Leliana and Cassandra were already under her blanket in modest night wear. They were almost shoulder to shoulder. It was a cosy arrangement, perhaps cramped, nothing like the larger tents Samson had for the Red Templars. It wasn't even the height of the Haven tents from near triangular shape.

Samson passed Leliana his armour, which she placed inside one large sack they'd designated for storage in the corner.

"What are you doing?" Leliana wondered, as though sitting upright deserved prison time.

"You want me to join you?" Samson asked, confused. He couldn't decide which way he wanted to lie down. The bed roll was next to Leliana's, yet he didn't like the idea of being shoulder to shoulder with her.

"You are so vulgar," Leliana said, annoyed.

Why had she gotten snotty all of a sudden?

"That wasn't vul-"

"Urg, it is not difficult," Cassandra interjected, pointing out the space where Samson's bed roll had been placed, "Your head goes there, put your feet..." she patted the other end.

"Or my feet could go there," Samson remarked, gesturing to where his pillow was, in line with Leliana's head.

"Do what you like," Leliana said, "just know, if I contract an illness from your feet, you can say goodbye to any lyrium."

Cassandra chuckled, but upon seeing Samson's scowl, tried to stop.

"Actually, Leliana," Samson decided to correct her, "To get sick you'd have to put my feet in your mouth."

Cassandra snorted, "Yes. That would make you sick."

"You enjoy this I suspect?" Leliana seemed embarrassed, though she directed her attention to Cassandra, "You find his jeering clever?"

"Your fighting is irritating," Cassandra said, coldly, "If the two of you carry on any longer, a monster will find us."

Samson had to laugh, "I'm the only monster for miles around, ladies. You know this."

"We do," Cassandra said, with an appreciative smile.

Samson finally lay down in his sleeping bag, next to Leliana. He saved her the trouble of managing his sock and bed roll covered feet next to her ears.

"Have you started Varric's book yet, Cassandra?" he asked, finally.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, "It is-"

"You like it?" Leliana deduced, obviously much more acquainted with Cassandra's nonverbal cues.

"I…" Cassandra went pink and glared at Samson, "It was enjoyable enough that I continued after the first chapter."

Samson grinned. "Varric would love to know what you think, Seeker."

"N-No!" Cassandra almost hit Leliana in the face in an attempt to lean over to his direction, "You mustn't tell him."

"Why not?" Samson questioned, "Unless you have more praise…"

"If anyone provides Varric with any feedback on his b-b-book," Cassandra forced out, like she didn't want to classify it as literature, "It will be me."

"You?" Leliana gasped.

"Yes."

"Clever," Samson was interested, "Is this for revenge, Seeker? I didn't think you were nasty enough."

"I am," Cassandra declared stoutly, "I am incredibly nasty. You should know better than anyone! L-Leliana?"

Leliana snickered, and raised her eyebrows in Samson's direction, "Indeed, she is so offensive she runs away from any verbal confrontation."

Samson chuckled, "Cassandra, I've had a woman beat me up for the fun of it. You don't scare me."

"Is that true?" Cassandra demanded, distrusting.

"Yeah."

"But that doesn't tell us anything. With your history, you probably had a person trying to gouge your eyes out every day," Leliana remarked, "What makes this different?"

"The 'for fun' part."

"Do not ask him any more questions, Leliana," Cassandra pushed her covers away, "I will go for first watch after all, because I am tired of speaking to you two."

She gathered up her armour and the rest of her clothes from the two sacks, stepped over them.

* * *

Samson was shaken awake at The Elder One knew what hour.

"Samson," Leliana hissed, "your watch."

He mumbled and squinted to see. The lantern was just inside the tent, so very faint light illuminated the Spymaster's hair and not much else.

"Right," he mumbled. He gathered his things and was about to step out the tent to put them on, when something caught his attention. From profile, Leliana's eyes looked bloodshot, "You alright?"

Leliana turned to look at him and appeared incredulous. With the light, it became obvious that lines indicated where tears had been moments ago, "I doubt you care."

Samson didn't care about a lot, though at least he owed Leliana some comfort for when she was there for him. "I do," he pointed to the tent entrance, "Wanna chat for a bit?"

She didn't answer, so Samson shrugged and left. He had tried.

Once on watch for maybe five minutes, Leliana returned, a cloak wrapped around her shoulders. He nodded to show he had acknowledged her.

Silence followed.

"See anything on your watch?" Samson asked.

"Some leaves," Leliana replied.

Something between a groan and a laugh escaped his lips, "Hurray."

Even the air scented different here. Probably the trees.

"I am looking forward to visiting Val Royeaux," Leliana explained, "though it is difficult because Divine Justinia and I… I shared many memories with her there, and I do not know if I wish to forget them or not."

For the umpteenth time, Samson was pleased his emotions were muted. If he had them all, he was sure guilt would be tormenting him now. Leliana was upset because the Divine was dead, and the Orleasian city would remind her of it. Since Samson disrupted the ritual, he had played a role in the Divine's death. He could only guess as a minimum she would hate him if she knew.

Like with all the Red Templars, he saw the Divine's demise as a necessary evil – but that still meant it was evil. Again, the question rose of when he had started believing that cruelty was _required_. A mixture of things, though Corypheus had been incredibly convincing.

"And you do nothing? You stand there with this blank look," Leliana demanded, appearing furious, "Have you not lost anyone? Do you not know what I am saying, or did you lie, and you wanted to appear sympathetic so I can give you your cherished lyrium?"

Samson tensed his jaw, "I am thinking on what to say. But lyrium has nothing to do with it."

He simply didn't like watching others suffer. That very thought was irksome. Without Corypheus, he couldn't say it was 'necessary' evil anymore. In fact, master saw _him_ as very unnecessary. Without the justification, he was just plain evil. And yet, he could still not feel the guilt that would be associated.

Finally, he managed, "I'm sorry you feel that way."

Leliana scrutinized his expression, "You don't sound sorry."

"I'm never going to, and it is not because I don't grasp what you mean," Samson admonished, "The only negative emotion I am very familiar with these days is anger. I've learned to just _pretend_ I feel the others, by acting. I am a hollow shell, and I've fooled many by this talent of mine."

"That is not normal," Leliana's tone made it sound like an insult.

It was time for some sarcasm, "News to me, Leliana."

"Have you always been this way?"

"No," he snarled.

"What changed you, then?" Leliana wondered, "The red lyrium?"

"NO!" Samson shouted. He couldn't stay calm about this anymore. The ignorance was torture, "The blue shit!"

Leliana seemed to think about this for a second, "Why should I believe you?"

"I'm telling the truth," Samson spat, "I went through cycles of taking none of it, then too much of it! I don't think my head enjoyed that. I noticed feelings fading away like water through a pipe – maybe six years ago? See – the red lyrium didn't take anything else away that mattered. My emotions were already destroyed." Leliana didn't respond, so he added, "I told you I'm sorry about the Divine dying. You think I'm spewing lies? Then go back to the tent."

Anger remained in Leliana's face, though tears shone in her eyes.

He was lucky the grief of losing Wystan, as well as Faith, did not tear him apart inside.

"Does anything inspire happiness in you?" Leliana questioned, in a soft voice, "Yes, I joked when you arrived that your life was meaningless, but…"

"I have NOTHING to be happy about!"

"Then why are you here?!" Leliana hissed, "Why don't you destroy everything, or even yourself? Why do you bother with the world?"

Samson inhaled slowly, and exhaled even slower. That, he knew the answer to: "I want to see the world get better." Corypheus or not, that had always been true. "And if I can do that, putting myself through purgatory is worth it."

Leliana looked away from him, as if to hide the fact she was crying, though Samson could still see it. Tears were impossible to conceal.

"I know you don't believe in the Maker, though I wonder why He let Dorothea die, after all the good she did for Him, in His name," she said, remorsefully, "and I know I will wonder those questions in Orlais, no matter how I may appear to outsiders. And I wish I could still see her."

Did she want a hug? Samson wasn't sure what to do, besides reply honestly, "Wondering something like that would make me mental. I prefer not to think on it. I have lost people who were very close to me, so I know what that is like."

"Did you feel sad for them when that happened?"

"Not really," Samson remarked, "but my feelings were missing and that made me angry."

Leliana made a derisive sound, "Your anger replaced it."

"I knew anyone who spoke to me about it would think, 'He doesn't care because he doesn't feel anything' which is such rubbish. Caring is a curse of the mind. It don't matter if I feel nothing."

Leliana pondered on these words as some tears dripped onto the ground, "I understand. But compassion is not without reason, and good can only come by caring for others. Only demons would ignore these feelings."

Without acknowledging it explicitly, it seemed Samson and Leliana had agreed on this notion, even if the world was cruel. Kindness made it less so.

He watched her cry, and knew he might feel sorry for her if he turned back the clock ten years.

"Can I help?" he murmured, realizing they'd been yelling quite loudly.

Leliana gave a shrewd smile, "I don't know. I sometimes wonder if the Maker is listening to me, or if I am an animal in a cage, where He simply observes and laughs at my failures, like it is all a joke to Him."

"I stopped believing He does even that," Samson said, "if He did, I should hear Him laughing at me."

"He does laugh at you," Leliana said with a smile, "I may not know what he is doing for me, though… I think I am the greater idiot for not being by Dorothea's side when she died."

This regret had one problem. If Leliana had been at the Conclave, she wouldn't be here, "Maybe because you survived you can do what she wanted you to now, and carry on her legacy."

Leliana looked depressed, "I will pray to discover what that is. I am sorry for yelling at you."

Samson shrugged, "It don't bother me."

"No, but you have kindness that has survived the turmoil of the world's depravity and lives on in your mind," Leliana said, "Lyrium hasn't destroyed that. No matter what the Maker does, remembering to be compassionate is the most important. It can turn the world into a better place."

Awkward. Samson doubted she would think that if she knew the truth about Corypheus. He looked at the trees, to pretend what she said didn't worry him. "Let's hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Schattenriss for proof reading! I hope you're enjoying the story.


	14. Val Royeaux I

The trees lessened and pale walls become the extent of the horizon, the entrance to Val Royeaux. The morning light cast the faintest beige tone upon it, the contour of the gates in the center denoting sanctity.

"Remember to use your new given name while you are here," Cassandra instructed him, "It was chosen by myself, Marcus- after Markus Pentaghast, my grandfather and King of Nevarra. I thought you would appreciate being titled after one in a position of power."

Samson grinned at the knowing look in Cassandra's eye. This made the stupid name not seem so bad. Contrarily, he felt rather smug about it. "I do. Thank you, Cassandra."

"He is mentally unstable and frail, ready to keel over any day," Leliana added from Cassandra's other side, with a triumphant glint in her eye. "A childless, loveless murderer- he ordered the execution of Cassandra's parents when they tried to overthrow him."

"Enough, Leliana!" Cassandra snapped, vexed.

If he was told this before Cassandra and he agreed to make a fresh start, he would have been irked at this detail. Cassandra probably chose the name out of her revulsion at Samson's egotistical and nonconformist behaviour. Now, it had a cruel irony. The revelation of Cassandra being part of a royal line was unexpected, and he felt sorry for the fact her parents were gone.

"Is that true about your parents, Cassandra?" Samson probed, examining her expression carefully.

Looking stoutly ahead, the Nevarran only glanced briefly at him. "Yes."

Before any more of the conversation could be had, she avoided his eye and rode ahead. It made Samson wonder how everyone's families were doing with this Breach business.

"Let's not leave her waiting, mad King," Leliana teased. It was an insult, though not a malicious one.

"Hey." Samson swayed nearer to her. "I make the orders 'round here, Spymaster."

"About nothing of consequence," Leliana joked, before encouraging her horse to a trot.

The main entry was guarded by knights, and more were spread out around the walls. Samson cringed. Beyond it, the music was unintelligible.

Cassandra groaned and slowed her mount. "Stay behind me."

Samson followed behind Leliana. As Cassandra approached, the knights at the gate straightened to attention, looking stern.

"A familiar face does not guarantee entry to the city, madame," one drawled.

"It is…" Cassandra mentioned her title, and so many middle names Samson wondered if any of them were made up, "I am in line to the throne of Nevarra, and we have a meeting at the Grand Cathedral tomorrow morning. Allow us to enter."

The knight said, "Indeed, Lady Pentaghast," and muttered something in Orlesian to his fellow knight.

"I can understand you," Cassandra spoke over the top of them, with an invidious leer.

Sheepish, the knights looked at each other. The Knight on the right opened the gate. "I will take you to the Grand Cathedral so this can be verified."

"Thank you." The Seeker ushered Samson and Leliana over.

Samson winced when they entered the gates, nervously checking the gloves weren't at risk of slipping off. His mount, Silence, probably didn't like Val Royeaux either from how Samson pulled on the reins frequently for it to stop trotting or veering in a different direction. The city might have been Hightown, only bigger. The architecture was more rounded and elegant, with vibrant foliage and the occasional fountain decorating it. The sun was out, enhancing the red and blue banners draped across the buildings.

 _Now, that is something you'd never see in Hightown_ Samson thought, trying not to gawk in case it was an everyday occurrence.

In front of a monstrous fortress like a Castle, a harlequin crowd marched around it, chanting:

"Réforme pour vous! Réforme pour nous! Réforme pour tout ! Quand ? Maintenant ! Comment ? Egalite ! "

Up to ten City Guards were directing the protests elsewhere, or at least not have them block the gates to the Chantry.

"What's the fuss ?" Samson murmured under his breath, moving as close to Leliana as possible.

"They're demanding for the Chantry structure to be reformed, " she replied, "Probably, the lack of a Divine is making the governance difficult."

"Right."

An undeniable sense of energy and power existed in protests, even if they achieved nothing. Just knowing the citizens were willing to fight for their values was somewhat reassuring.

Samson and Leliana were instructed to wait outside where the protests were, and it was awkward trying to avoid them swarming around like beetles. He tried to recall the small amount of Orlesian he had learned, but it was useless. He had learned about half a sentence. His pronunciation was so awful Cassandra and Leliana insisted he did not extend beyond those words until he perfected it. Silence tried to kick at anyone who got too close, and some of the Orleasian guards got irritated with them.

"Pouvez vous calmer ton animale, s'il vous plait?"

"Sorry!" Samson called down to him, "I don't speak your language."

"Vraiment? Rien de tout?" the man looked annoyed.

"I DON'T SPEAK YOUR LANGUAGE," Samson repeated, "I…don't… understand… you."

"He's asking for you to calm your horse," Leliana called over, "and he doesn't like you because you don't know any Orlesian."

"Piss on it." Samson stopped Silence from trampling someone. "How do I say sorry again?"

"By not swearing, for a start," Leliana said. She moved her horse over, and started to talk in Orlesian to the guard.

The whole thing was a pain in the ass.

* * *

Thank the Old Gods that the protesters were only hanging around the Cathedral. Still, it meant putting their mounts at the Inn and walking to the café was a more bothersome task than it should be. They were grumpy from pushing past so many. The quick shower helped him feel a bit more refreshed, yet Samson's stomach was ready for food that wasn't the flesh of an animal.

The interior did not allay his mood given there was a minstrel carrying a tune with one of the local, silly instruments. He wished he could have stayed in the Inn and slept instead of meeting some Orlesians. Many varieties of breads shiny with butter were visible from behind the counter, a young woman brewing coffee near the window. It was a quaint place, and very clean, the walls painted in cream, except for velvet red walls for the far end, probably expensive. If anyone drank alcohol in here, it was probably in sauce for cakes, wine or as sweetened drinks. The tables were reasonably spread apart, though it could probably seat fifteen at most. A number of windows had a view of the Cathedral opposite the river, which would have been impressive if not for the anarchy around it today.

They waited at a table in the corner until Cassandra raised her head.

"They have arrived." She turned stern eyes to Samson. "I will be keeping a tally for Josephine. I expect that might help your motivation?"

Samson shrugged, not wanting Cassandra to know that he didn't want to disappoint the Ambassador. "Maybe."

Leliana got to her feet and crooned like a person meeting a family member's puppy, "Tu es tros belle, madmoiselle!"

"Toi aussi, Leliana!

Samson's regard drifted to the guest and Leliana, now exchanging kisses on each cheek. The woman was certainly radiant with her warm smile and twinkling brown eyes.

Leliana chuckled, "Your accent is still terrible!"

The blonde looked embarrassed. Her shoulder length hair refracted the sunlight and hurt Samson's eyes. "Please accept my sincerest apologies. Noah told me I was making sound progress."

Samson was startled. That sounded like a Marcher accent.

"He is lying to you, of course," Leliana said, "He probably thinks your voice is worthy of day dreaming no matter how awful the Orlesian sounded."

They broke apart. The dark chest plate and metal boots, long autumn sleeves and tight fitting trousers would make the guest indistinguishable to any person if it wasn't for the Seeker signet positioned above what little chest she possessed.

Guessing from how cheery this Seeker was, this must be Seeker Elizabeth.

Their shrill bickering was akin to teenagers. More than the noise bothered him. It indicated a level of rapport, almost like they had become friends in the short time knowing each other. They were stuck in their own girly world, which didn't match the impression Samson received from the earlier discussion of them.

"Seeker Elizabeth." Cassandra raised her voice slightly, lifting a hand. "I'm sorry for Leliana's… _rudeness_." The words sounded a tad jumbled. Maybe she was too tired from the trip. "Would you like to take a seat?"

Pleased that maybe Leliana would stop getting distracted, he watched the blonde Seeker, waiting for a response. But it didn't happen. Confused, he followed Cassandra's gaze and saw she was looking in another direction. Following that, he spotted a brunette with a dignified, pallid expression drifting through the crowd. With a clunk of metal boots, she marched like she was performing an important rite, as if the trajectory was out of habit, to Cassandra's side of the table. Samson noticed her stoic demeanour first, and with it, the sublime brightness of her eyes. The iris were the same colour as the mark on his hand, only the shine of that Seeker was brighter, so daunting it was like her gaze might be able to burn a hole right through the middle of him. At least, that's what it _seemed_ like.

Leliana mustn't have known these Seekers well, or just be terrible at describing personality types (probably the second). _This lady_ was the serious one of the two, and he made a mental note to fuss about Leliana's poor word choice later. With nothing to do, Samson listened to Cassandra and Seeker Elizabeth's conversation while peering between his glove covered mark and his boots. They started with the kissing custom.

"I was ready," Elizabeth said, and he heard her sit in the chair next to Cassandra. "I'm used to it, don't worry."

This woman's accent was unmistakably Marcher. He didn't know why he felt surprised. It made sense Seekers wouldn't only be from this region. Orlais was the only country that trained Seekers- so one received the training here or nothing.

"You were the only one," Cassandra said darkly. "Has your morning been a disaster?"

"Only trying to decide how I should present myself for meeting Marcus Regnier."

"You chose well," Cassandra told her, "Though I think it is more important that we can decide how to make Ser Marcus give the best impression possible representing the Inquisition. It will be hard work."

"Curses, I am so, so rude!" gasped the saccharine tone of the other Seeker. The squabble between her and Leliana halted. "Ser Marcus, forgive me for being so terrible and impolite."

Samson peered up at her. The blonde had a small smile, and she folded into a rather magnificent bow, her hair flopping down with it. "I hope the introduction is not too delayed. You may address me as Seeker Evitt."

For a possible Marcher, she was somewhat theatrical, but maybe this was normal in Orlais. Samson nodded, and tried to think of what Josephine would say in this situation.

"Contrarily, and it is a pleasure to meet you," he replied, realizing how little like himself he sounded, "I am supposed to be courteous, ma'am. Am I pronouncing Seeker Evitt fine?"

Evitt gave a dainty nod of the head, like it was a dance step. "Your pronunciation is very fine, Ser Marcus."

Samson pressed his lips together. He didn't like them calling him Ser _Marcus_ , but maybe he just needed time to get used to it. He looked to Cassandra, confused. "Won't the fact we're so noisy attract attention?"

The Nevarran seemed to be concentrating hard. "I imagine not if Leliana and Seeker Evitt cease their lurid gossiping."

That seemed encouragement enough to get a move on. Elizabeth chuckled. With a scraping of chairs Seeker Evitt and Leliana sat down at the table as well. Cassandra turned to him, leaning back in her chair to better display the brunette. "Ser Marcus, this is Seeker Elizabeth."

Samson smiled as nicely as he could. "Hello second escort," he couldn't help it, "Elizabeth's a southern name, if I am not mistaken."

"Right," Elizabeth agreed, "but it is popular here too."

" _Elisabet_ is Nevarran," Cassandra remarked, "though I don't know which first appeared."

"Where's it from for you," Samson inquired, "um, ma'am?"

"Starkhaven," Elizabeth replied, "but for today, let's not waste time talking about my sister and I. Where are you from?"

"Kirkwall," Samson said, but Cassandra cleared her throat. "Oh, blas… I mean. Markham."

Cassandra made a weary sound, whereas he thought that reaction was unfair.

"When in Orlais, do as the Orlesians do," Elizabeth said, with a polite smile, "so please call me Seeker Elizabeth. No ma'am, miss or mademoiselle."

Samson nodded. The smile didn't meet the vibrant eyes. He wished it would. Seeing another person outside of Red Templars or Tranquil lacking emotion was bizarre.

Cassandra took the menu off her and passed it to Leliana, who chimed, "So kind, Cassandra. I will indulge on gateau."

At that moment a waiter approached them. Leliana ordered for herself and Seeker Evitt. Cassandra leaned forward across them again. "This irresponsible man will have the lavender tea, I would like the myrtle crepes, and…?"

_Who by the Blight drank lavender tea? The flower was used as perfume for a reason._

The Nevarran leaned to Elizabeth, who promptly replied. "I'll have a citrus tea -medium strength with milk for the side."

Samson leaned back in his chair, watching the waiter leave. If he'd been sitting in this café on his own, it wouldn't have ended well. "I think it's about time you start _educating_ me about how I can impress the Grand Clerics, escorts."

He expected raised eyebrows and curious look as a reply, but the conversation rapidly altered.

"First, before anything, you need to fix your slouching," Leliana pronounced.

"That's very important." Evitt gave a curt nod, her eyes scanning him, "we shall amend your appearance by the end of today to meet the social requirement."

"Do all you like, nothing can change how I look," Samson attested, as he heard a clatter from next to him. Cassandra had pushed herself from her seat.

Leliana wouldn't stand for this. "The hair has to go," she said immediately, with absolute certainty. "That is the baseline. Once that is dealt with, everything else will be easier."

Suddenly protective of it, Samson resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair, even if he knew it looked awful.

The blonde Seeker prodded her chin thoughtfully. "We can surely improve it."

Cassandra picked up the chair and moved it to the end of the table, leaving a large gap between Elizabeth and himself. "The sun was in my eyes."

Samson wasn't listening. He didn't think it was possible to look any better, even if they retrieved a disguise. Little could mask his gutter wrecked, choked up appearance, "Don't believe it. You ladies are tasking yourselves to a struggle without glory and no victors."

"It is Val Royeaux," Leliana said pointedly, "There is always a victor and a loser, and we want the Grand Clerics to be the losers."

"There are four of us and one of you," Cassandra observed. "I think that is enough to contain your temptation for absurdity."

"It takes _four_ Seekers to tame my whims?" Samson remarked, _you must be blockhead Chantry worshippers after all._ "You need to practice."

"Yeah, we do," Elizabeth said, and she stood from her seat. "Seeker Evitt and I have a tight schedule to follow. When the waiter comes back, please provide the reply. We will start with table etiquette. Everything else is an extension of these basics."

He looked up as the Seeker trailed behind his chair. "That's not too easy, Seeker Elizabeth?"

"No. Let me teach you correct posture," she answered, and she grasped the front of his shoulders. With a firm but not forceful grip she pulled them up and back half an inch. Like thrown from a steep height, his stomach physically lurched with déjà vu, but the floor stayed where it was. Stupid brain! "Whenever you are in a public place, keep this position. When we go back to your inn, strengthen the stabilizing muscles that will help it… Seeker Evitt will show you when we _escort_ you back there."

Half distracted by his brain's glitch, he nodded, glancing at Leliana and Evitt. His muscles had involuntarily tensed.

"Yes, slouching is frowned upon here," said the blonde Seeker.

"You mustn't ever do it, not even _think_ about it," Leliana ventured, acting like she controlled the entire table. "The slightest lapse in concentration can be noticed by even amateur players of the Game."

It felt like Seeker Elizabeth plunged her hand into his gut rather than merely pressing on the middle of his back- not from the force, but by the isolating reaction from it. His startled flinching only made the feeling intensify. "This section of your spine should be straight, down to here," she tapped her fingers a palm length down. He tried to follow what she said, "Yeah, good. From here tilting your hips forward twenty degrees is ideal, but there are slight differences from person to person. You should be able to feel your hip bones on the chair. That is perfect."

He altered his posture as asked, though the red side effects were akin to a rickety boat journey across the choppy Kirkwall harbour.

_You're hallucinating. She's a random person from a city you're only visiting for the first time._

"Are you uncomfortable, Ser Marcus?" Cassandra inquired, looking the most disengaged out of everybody.

 _Is this a trick question?_ He thought, but answered, "Bit."

"My apologies," Seeker Elizabeth lifted her hands away, and with them was an after effect of derealisation. Why was it, even in another country, these side effects stalked him like predatory fiends?

The waiter arrived with their drinks at that moment. Aware all eyes were upon him Samson said, "Thank you, sir."

"No trouble, monsieur," the waiter replied with an exhausting accent and half smile. He departed shortly after receiving requests for food – mostly bread and an assortment of fruit, nuts and cheese.

The Red Templar felt irritated. He'd passed the first test, yet Seeker Evitt was frowning.

"What?"

"For a lower class citizen, this response would have been appropriate," she acknowledged, sipping her lavender tea, "But as I was informed in Commander Rutherford's letter, the goal is to augment your image to one of the upper class."

Samson frowned. He knew that from Josephine but did that really matter for cafes?

"A person of higher social standing would never speak to waiters or waitresses," Elizabeth added, "It is their job to thank _you_ for being there."

The man glared at her. "Well, I hardly look like upper class nonsense."

"Nonsense, yes," Cassandra agreed.

"But we will help you," Evitt assured him.

They sipped at their drinks, and while Evitt provided Samson with instructions on table etiquette, his gaze started to flicker to Elizabeth, like it was an injury he needed to allay. The déja vu was often random, though he could usually justify it away. With people, it was slightly more difficult to do this, as the triggers were even _more_ haphazard. The intensity of the previous sensation was more like a _physical_ tugging than his soul being prodded. As he observed each of Elizabeth's finger's position on the mug, and copied exactly one finger at a time, he couldn't shake how familiar it looked. Annoyed, he tried to think if he'd met someone who looked similar, even by just one singular detail that could have tricked his brain into thinking familiarity existed, when none did.

What came to mind was a nightmare.

_By the noise and tables, he was in a tavern, though which one he wasn't sure. The colours were saturated beyond what he had capability for in his vision. The brightness looked unnatural and fake, with masses of texture from the foreground and background missing. Then the incomplete portions would move, like a flickering light blinding his eyes. Other patrons in the tavern altered between moving swirls and images that flashed from one part of the room to another. He was at a table, and a girl was sitting opposite him. She had emerald coloured eyes and long chestnut hair._

" _E_ _-ei_ _retrorsum_ _!" she giggled, and_ _she took a gulp of mead, "_ _et non vis facere quastionem charta unguibus."_

 _Her smile was that of the taint, a representation of happiness painted by a demon._ _This stranger had an inhumane vibrancy, and the longer he looked at her, the more he was unable to describe her. The features began to blur or pull apart of simply lose an outline or shadow._

_Here lay an absence of familiarity._

_The words came from the void itself and turned him into part of that never ending vacuum of space, a melody, and a hundred echoes. Her laugh was like it too, a reminder of this world's disarray. He peered down at the table. The noise of emptiness rang through the table like it wasn't there, like nothing was there. He might vanish at any moment. However, something glistened on the table. A glass, one closer to him, was filled to the top with the same substance the stranger's did. She put her glass down. Hers was almost empty._

_As though to mimic the spirit of this place, the person whose eyes he was looking through grabbed their own glass with one hand, and hers with another, and swapped them over. Now, she had a full glass. Now, his was empty. The longer he looked at it, it also started to change shape, except he heard a male voice say, "_ _melius bonum," from somewhere behind his head._

The eyes and hair colour were what caused the déja vu, but the differences to Elizabeth were far greater in number. Even if Elizabeth was represented in a younger form in this dream, they wouldn't behave, nor look, nor sound the same. They were different people, like distant family were, despite a one detail in common. How odd nightmares could be.

"What are we doing again, sorry?" Samson asked, realizing he'd lost track of the conversation. He tried to forget the feeling of the universe pulling apart, one that he pushed away every morning from the aftermath of sleeping, even if he didn't dream about anything.

Stern expressions peered at him from around the table.

"I was explaining how you are sipping your tea incorrectly, Ser Marcus," Seeker Evitt said.

 _Why does that matter?_ Samson wondered, but he felt like the world was in its proper place not looking into his mind, "Could you explain again, _si vous plait_ Seeker Evitt?"

Redeeming himself to them by speaking Orlesian, amazingly, worked.

"Excellent, Ser Marcus!" Seeker Evitt praised, "I am impressed with your pronunciation. Don't you agree, sister?"

Knowing he couldn't avoid looking at Elizabeth for the rest of the day, he glanced at her as she responded, "Yes, it's better than expected for a first try."

"Twenty tries," Leliana corrected.

Seeker Elizabeth forced a smile. "That might be how many times we will explain everything to Ser Marcus, at this rate."

The rest of their time in the café was spent eating and learning basic Orlesian. Now Samson knew two sentences and a half of the language (and could pronounce them properly).

* * *

On the short walk to boutiques, the two Seekers asked Samson to recite the fictionalized story that Josephine had written for him, which he did without stress and the conversation naturally flowed. Samson was a step behind the Seekers, with Leliana and Cassandra observing carefully from behind them all.

"You ladies enjoy being Seekers?" Samson asked.

"I adore it," Evitt answered, looking at ease. "There is great autonomy and freedom."

"I like the power and control," Elizabeth said. They weaved past some citizens who tried to hand out pamphlets.

Samson could relate to that feeling. "You girls ever been to the Free Marches?"

"I grew up there!" Evitt said brightly, "Kirkwall."

"Thedas is small," Samson remarked, turning to the other Seeker, "and yourself, Seeker Elizabeth?"

The brunette smiled half-heartedly. "Ostwick."

Samson was irritated that this didn't calm him at all. Yes, it meant he definitely was delusional and shouldn't pay any attention to his thoughts, but… if the side effects of red lyrium were starting to pervade everything he worried that his condition was deteriorating. Blighted hell, but he couldn't stop taking the stuff. He couldn't become dysfunctional. The Inquisition needed him.

He reminded himself not to get distracted. "Did the Seekers lure you away from the Marches?"

The two Seekers glanced at each other, but it was Elizabeth who answered, "Yes. Why do you ask?"

The Red Templar knew that, 'My nightmares sometimes contain a girl that has some similarities to you' was the wrong answer. Therefore he used the only sane reply, "Making polite conversation."

"You are not known for making polite conversation," Cassandra noticed.

"Then he is learning, Cassandra," Leliana said happily. "This has not been for nothing. We can let the Commander know his time hasn't been wasted."

"Or _ours_ ," Cassandra noted.

"And the Seekers," Samson pointed out.

"No, but I wanted to see Val Royeaux again even if the Ser Marcus didn't want it," Leliana rambled. For someone who was crying about the Divine days ago, she hid her feelings very well.

Then Seeker Evitt pointed out a clothing boutique and Samson entered. Kirkwall only had one or two boutiques in the really pompous end of Hightown, so it was strange to see dozens of these places one after the other along the cobblestone streets.

"Um, who is paying for this?" Samson wondered, peering at the pastel painted walls and the well-dressed simpletons carrying five things at once. He looked at a price tag of some boots that Seeker Evitt placed into his hands. These were already more expensive than the coin he had.

"We will pay for what you find here, Ser Marcus," Seeker Evitt said, "Consider it a welcoming gift. It will hopefully be encouragement for the rest of Orlais to follow through with the generosity."

"The Maker will pay for the rest," Elizabeth said, absently, as she picked up another pair of boots without as much as a glance at Samson's feet.

"Leliana and I were provided with a certain amount of funds."

By how easily they could find everything they were looking for, Samson got the impression these women often shopped together in their spare time.

Out of the ten or so boutiques, among the hideous clothes that looked more fitting for Cullen, having them find hair extensions was the worst. In an attempt to make him feel better, the girls bought their own and said even if he had proper hair it was normal for Orlesians to buy these for special occasions. Or maybe the make-up was the most mortifying, even if it was just to make his skin tone look more like a normal person's rather than mutating him into a woman. They also found a concoction that could somewhat normalize the color of his eyes, but the stuff was toxic and was only recommended to be used sparingly.

"I know someone who became ill for a week after using it for three days in a row," Seeker Evitt remarked with a look of horror.

The only accessory that he enjoyed purchasing was a mask, the Orlesian indicator of the higher social class. He chose one in gold that reached half way down the bridge of his nose. It had a pattern of diagonal lines across it on one side- he thought it looked like slash marks from a blade, and ignored Cassandra's comment that it was likely to represent the rays of the sun, a symbol of the Chantry. While assured it would look best on him matching the rest of his outfit, he liked knowing that wearing this would mark him as important, but not in way that would receive lots of complaining, like the green mark on his hand, or poverty, did. He only realized while trying it on, that pretending to be a man who had been lawful his whole life didn't feel as terrible as he expected.

The Grand Cathedral was their last destination, although because of the heightened security even Seeker Elizabeth and Evitt took a while to be allowed inside. Leliana was happily carrying all the shopping bags, as though she had purchased it all for herself. Samson didn't mind. He didn't want anyone thinking he had willingly gone shopping for such nonsense anyway.

He didn't know whether to feel impressed or upset by the greatest Chantry of Thedas. The design was unlike any he had seen. Whenever he imagined it, he just thought it would be like the Kirkwall Chantry but larger. However the shape had no resemblance to a chapel. With the high ceilings, red rugs, tapestries and many rooms connecting to each other like a long labyrinth, it was similar to what he'd seen with Castles, maybe even the Temple of Sacred Ashes, mixed with the Gallows – for all the granite walls. Like with the Kirkwall Chantry, the effigies were creepy more than comforting. Samson lost count of how many lefts and rights they took, until Seeker Elizabeth poked her head around a corner.

"They're having a meeting at the moment, but those two Grand Clerics will be speaking to you tomorrow in this room," she muttered.

"Ser Marcus, you may look," Seeker Evitt assured him.

Samson was glad that at least one of the Seekers was being clearer in the instructions. Cautiously he approached and looked around the corner. The room was twice as long as the other rooms, and had a larger table to show for it, and a dozen or more chairs ornate with gold positioned around it. There were engraved pictures of Andraste and flames on the walls. The Grand Clerics themselves looked unremarkable. Besides the colours of their robes, they could have been from Kirkwall.

"Two seats left from the center is where you've been allocated a seat," Seeker Elizabeth whispered. She didn't point. "Do you see?"

Samson located the chair with her instructions. It looked the same as the others. "Yeah."

" _Yes_ ," Elizabeth corrected, "Don't mess that up. It annoys them."

"Yes, Seeker Elizabeth."

Repeating the information about the chair in his head, he glanced at her again. In his nightmares, the lookalike didn't have one her ears so scarred it looked melted… definitely not.

 _You've had nightmares about someone similar_ , _but that doesn't mean toss._ Samson assured himself, _it's your head being sick, like Faith's brain was._

"Step back," Seeker Elizabeth said firmly, which Samson did, averting his eyes, "Their meetings usually go for a while. We'll walk you back to the Inn you're staying at and Seeker Evitt will double check the meeting time tomorrow morning."

"Right," Samson whispered. This place echoed too much, " _Merci beaucoup_."

The trouble wasn't over yet. As they returned, the Seekers took turns explaining what they knew about the Grand Clerics, what questions they would be likely to ask, and how Samson could best answer. Cassandra wrote this down, thankfully. Samson retained that only seven out of a larger number of Grand Clerics would be present at the meeting tomorrow, and some of the key instructions he had to follow. His head was so overwhelmed with 'do this' and 'don't do that's, that he thought he was starting to get them confused. He almost wished he'd asked Cullen for an extra day to assimilate the information.

In their room of the Inn ("How lovely. You can hear the music from outside," said Seeker Evitt) the Seekers showed him a number of stabilizing and spine mobilisation exercises to make his posture more effortless. After they had to return to the Grand Cathedral, so it was time for goodbyes. It was only then Samson realized he didn't want them to go. They seemed pleasant as Seekers. Even if they were just being polite, it was nicer treatment than he'd received from Cullen, Cassandra or Leliana initially.

He couldn't help but feel curious about his déjà vu. What if it _did_ mean something… but it wasn't obvious? Without that idea weighing him down, remembering would be easier. If he kept it to himself, it was probably going to impair his concentration tomorrow. He peered at Leliana – perhaps she would listen to him.

"Will the two of you join us back to Haven tomorrow evening?" Cassandra wondered, "Our Commander informed me that you were seriously considering the partnership though it depended largely on circumstances?"

At that moment Leliana handed Evitt a note. "For you."

"Open it now," Cassandra reassured her, when the blonde Seeker looked confused. Samson watched as she did so and scanned a few lines. She seemed frozen for a moment before returning Leliana and Cassandra's gaze.

"I will discuss the matter with Seeker Elizabeth and we will let you know our plans after the meeting tomorrow," she said formally, putting the letter back in the envelope and pocketing it, "Thank you for the information."

 _Probably something boring,_ he thought.

"It was a pleasure to meet you both," Samson said, mostly standing as perfectly upright as he could manage, the bag of clothes and whatnot at his feet.

"You too, Ser Marcus." Evitt said, with a small smile. He returned her short bow. "Good luck tomorrow. E- even if we decline to return to Haven, an alliance is very likely. Possibly…" she suddenly halted, "Farewell."

Elizabeth appeared already prepared to leave. She gave a small wave.

But Samson couldn't let her leave. His nightmares, as sick and frightening as they were, did contain an imitation of her – a really weak thread, but one none the less. He became lured by a compulsion. If this was the last he ever saw her… he needed his delusion stomped out of him for good, and then… he could tell Varric, Susanne or Maddox that he thought his red lyrium was having a worse effect on him and there. He'd figure out what to do…. But what could happen in the future didn't help him right now.

"Pardon me, Seeker Elizabeth," Samson began, practicing his very best 'look how important and snobbishly polite I am' stance. He almost felt tempted to mock one of those stupid accents, now the hard work of the day was done.

It wasn't just the brunette who stopped in her tracks, but all of them. They turned their heads around as if he'd suggested genocide.

"You wish to speak to her?" Cassandra guessed, looking imperious.

"Uh…" the Red Templar felt uneasy with all the eyes on him, "Is that forbidden, Seeker _Cassandra_?"

She looked to the two escorts. "That is not my choice."

Now everyone turned to Elizabeth. The woman had been all fake smiles and nothing, but that wasn't the case anymore. She looked… angry? He had been polite, yet… she made him think something was wrong. Her eyes whizzed to Evitt's and then to his, and Samson felt detached from his body, like the floor was starting to evaporate from underneath his feet. "Is it urgent?" she inquired, "Can it wait until tomorrow?"

Hm… she didn't _sound_ angry.

"What good is it to wait?" Leliana asked. Samson couldn't decide whether to give Leliana a look of thanks, as he was dumbfounded by how compulsive he was.

The green eyed Seeker seemed to regain some of her confidence. "I have somewhere to be."

"Sister…" the blonde Seeker said strictly.

Samson got the sense that the Seekers were like Leliana and Cassandra, because all it took was Evitt's one word and the brunette breathed slowly through her nose and turned to the door. "We can sit… umm…."

For the first time in the whole day she looked stumped, looking here and there, cautiously, like searching for a spider that had evaded sight but was still somewhere close by.

Cassandra stepped past them. "We will see you in the room, Ser Marcus- with a meal ordered for you."

He nodded.

Elizabeth still appeared wary, but not overly so. It was lucky this part of the Inn was quiet anyway. She tried to smile at him again, but her words were flowing with suspicion. "You… had something you wanted to ask?"

Samson hesitated, left in the same awkward position he was before. His curiosity was built upon paranoia and hysteria. Lost on where to start, he searched his brain to discover how not to sound like the _really_ bad lyrium addicts.

There wasn't any.

Elizabeth also seemed unable to speak, waiting.

He questioned again what had persuaded him to enter this conversation for it was a really stupid idea.

She, amazingly, looked less uneasy. In fact, the more awkward the silence became the more her expression returned to emptiness. Eventually she wore a playful look, "You're overwhelmed?"

Maybe it was a genuine smile.

 _Yes_ , he considered answering, while seriously debating on how to be less obvious. "No," he said, then, "a little bit."

"Yeah?" the Seeker drifted closer, "Is that 'little' actually a 'big' bit?"

Maybe her Seeker power was mind reading. That would explain why she was behaving like she had no personality – just like that apostate. Shit, not that delusion again. It could be a legitimate power, though. Samson tried to stay calm, "Did you guess that?"

"Yes," Seeker Elizabeth replied, without hindrance, "I meet all sorts through my work. It makes it easier to predict people," and then pensively, "You only remind me of someone."

She was barely a meter from him, but the words themselves were from the other side of Val Royeaux, probably spinning in a drain somewhere heading out to the ocean.

"Huh." Well, the reaction could be worse. She was trying to be nice. The Red Templar leaned against the wall, allowing his feet to rest from the walking. "Was it a friend?"

"Yes." The brunette gave a half shrug. "It was complicated."

Whoever this _friend_ was, he wanted nothing to do with it. It sounded like a lot of messy rubbish. She was more laid back, possibly thinking of slouching, but it didn't help his brain. Looking at her profile was spectral. The straightness of her nose and her radiant skin was mystifying. It was familiar, yes, scary. He had to try engaging this Seeker, find common ground. "Does that make talking to me overwhelming too?"

"Yes," Elizabeth didn't hesitate in her answer like he had. "It…."

The thought simply disappeared and didn't come back as the Seeker became lost in her own mind. He remembered Leliana saying this woman was meant to be more joking than Seeker Evitt, but that wasn't the impression he had gotten. She'd kept most comments to herself. Even when shopping, which he thought girls were supposed to like, she mostly looked absently at all the choices like she was gift shopping for someone she didn't care for. Maybe she was in a bad mood, or didn't want to be here.

"Sorry," he replied, not wanting to make things difficult for her.

Seeker Elizabeth appeared wary again, though she seemed calm and relaxed enough to express her mind, "I guess you could say… I find you frightening."

Out of everything she might have said Samson hadn't expected that. Seekers were above Templars. She could probably kill him right now, as she was armed but he wasn't. There was no rhyme or reason to it.

He recognized the wariness in her voice and the vulnerability in her face. In the streets of Kirkwall many looked at him like this, but Samson wasn't in the streets now. Maybe the beggar life had rubbed off on him. Still, at least he could respond to this, instead of having a person walk away.

The truth was not too distant from her reality. "You frighten me too."

And even talking to her right now, he still was. And from the turbulence in the green of her eyes, her fear endured.

"Why?" Seeker Elizabeth asked, her voice struggling to keep steady, "What did I ever do to you?"

"You've only just met me as well, Seeker Elizabeth," Samson reminded her.

"I guess, but…" The woman's eyes shifted to the side, before returning to him, "You answer first."

"Why do _I_ have to answer first?" Samson demanded, knowing he was going to sound crazy – and that he really _still_ didn't know how to explain.

"My time is limited," Elizabeth replied firmly. "It was my duty to be your escort for today, and you're doing something important tomorrow."

"But…" Samson grumbled to himself and made sure his hands were not twitching. He fought to keep standing up straight, the desire to slouch overpowering, "I'll sound mental."

She shook her head, her eyes not leaving him. "Look, I'm a Seeker. It's my duty to deal with all the out of order ones. I think I can handle it."

"And if you can't?" he questioned, knowing the division between eccentric crazy and actual crazy.

"I'll accept my reaction as my own and try really hard not to hold it against you."

He sighed. She seemed serious enough.

They found a spare room where they could speak in private, rather than some corridor. Samson took a few more moments to think of the words he needed. It was a tiny space, probably for storage, with a number of crates stacked against the blue-grey walls. When the door shut, he said, "I have vivid nightmares so often I don't know what dreams are like. The world I see is so bleak and wicked I wonder if it's all one big fantasy and death is waking from that sleep. Follow so far?"

"Um… you feel like a dead man?" The Seeker looked melancholic. "There was a time in my life where I had more nightmares than dreams too. I know how hard that can be."

"They don't haunt you anymore?"

The woman shook her head. "No, thank Andraste – but continue with what you were saying."

He paused. "I don't know." It sounded so stupid, "They _feel_ _more_ real than right now, and that worries me because they don't look or sound normal. If that's reality, then what the shit is this supposed to be? It's just in my head- lies and trickery sent by Andraste's corpse, maybe, to tangle my life."

He truly did not know where all those nightmares had come from.

"What are your nightmares about?" Elizabeth probed curiously.

"I'm not entirely sure," Samson remarked. "It's like maybe I'm at Andraste's side and there are all these glowing ghosts around me. It's so bright and like The Golden City, what I think it must look. Even the grey is so clear and colourful. But since it's all an illusion, it's a cruelty, a vice, my sins. Like the Dead Maker is trying to tell me to die with him and join his legion of souls."

"Uh huh," The same curiosity and anxiety remained in her eyes. "What does nightmares have to do with me? Why did you want to talk to me specifically?"

"This is where I sound more cracked," Samson sighed (he had dipped into enough crazy for today), "I warn you."

"I'm warned. Go ahead."

"There was a girl in them that looked… a few details the same as you. She's in so many, an avalanche of 'em; they blend into each other now, get lost in the snowstorm. It's not right to tell you. But I've had a lot of strange moments where I think I'm reminded of something. I stay calm. It's all my brain being broken. But I haven't felt it so strongly as I had with you, and I don't know. If it means anything to you, even something as choked up and ruined as I said, tell me. Maybe we can laugh about it and move on. But if it doesn't, tell me as well, so I can know never to trust my mind ever again."

Elizabeth had gone stony faced again. Since he hadn't been looking at her when he explained this, he wasn't sure exactly what part had inspired this reaction. "The Fade is a mystery to even those who study it. From the feeling of the Fade being more real than being awake, it sounds like you have an abnormally strong connection to the realm. You take lyrium, don't you… loads of it?"

Samson groaned. Hopefully Cullen didn't write a flogging worth of insults about him in the letter to the Seekers. "I've had my moments,"

"Ah, right. Do you remember specifics about those dreams? I might be able to help you if I knew more about them."

"Nightmares," he corrected her, "Uh…" His brain hit a dead end, but he remembered why his dreams were foggy too, "I… I don't like thinking on it, because it… I start thinking about how I can… um..." He knew ' _try to off myself_ ' was the right phrase, but he didn't want to use it, not with someone he barely knew. After all, he understood he couldn't die yet. He had work to do. Because she wouldn't know any better about how muted his emotions were, he finished with, "The nightmares make me feel bloody depressed."

"I'm… sorry about that," Elizabeth said, slowly, "What's depressing about them?"

There'd have to be another Blight before he analysed that in further detail. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, well, who's this person in them? You said the nightmares blend into each other?"

Samson stopped for a long while, trying to think as the woman only observed him, "The girl, maybe she's 20, or 17, or 25, I don't know. She has the same green eyes as you, though hers are still different somehow. I can't explain why, they just are. And… there…" he managed to uncover some more details, "She laughs a lot, sometimes with me, I think sometimes _at_ me. Dunno. But I hate it. It's useless. I have no Blighted idea how my head even came up with it - such a hollow, malicious joke. And she wore her hair down."

The Seeker reached behind her and began to remove the delicate lace tying back her hair. "Maybe if I try to mimic her appearance you'll think of more."

"You don't need to," Samson hurried, "It's a horde of useless pictures."

"If you really believed that you wouldn't be talking to me. Seriously, it's nothing."

He nodded, wanting to say thank you but he was too enthralled watching as the Seeker unravelled her hair and tried to straighten it out. Even as it flopped down past her shoulders, kinks remained. It was strangely comforting that she put in this effort, even the similarity was non-significant.

"Who is she? Do you see her from far away, from whose eyes? Is she a stranger?"

He tried to conjure a common theme. It made him less anxious to talk about it, even if his head hurt. "I don't know whose eyes it is, but they aren't mine." She obviously didn't find it so mental to listen to this, but… "In the nightmares, I know I _want_ her to be my friend. I want to be more than a stranger, but I worry I am somewhere in between."

"What do you call someone between a stranger and a friend?" the Seeker asked him, and Samson couldn't tell if it was rhetorical or not.

"Neh…" he mumbled, confused. "Depends." When the Seeker didn't answer he ventured, "Acquaintances? They're close to nothing, cloudy details. But if you're a step between nothing and a _friend_ , hey – that's not nothing… People don't get stuck there for nothing. It's like falling in a gutter, happens when you're not looking, thinking or seeing. Or maybe there's tripping, or it's on purpose. Friends are too alluring a prospect. Humans crave it like they do a good drink. Don't make sense to avoid it if the opportunity is there, not without another motive."

He paused, not wanting to spend too long submerging himself into the sickening knots in his stomach. There was more to it than that. He knew in the nightmares this girl was the most beautiful creature in existence.

Maybe she was a visual representation of safety. His brain had created the picture to trick him into thinking they were pleasant dreams. This could be the hurt of Ser Susanne, a desire to experience reality and forget the temptations that the mind presented him.

"Anything else you can think of?" the Seeker remarked.

"Nothing," he said, not looking away. And neither did she. "It… there are no words in the nightmares. It's…"

Was it the song of the lyrium?

Samson hated that Elizabeth represented the Seekers, an organization which was less tosh than other Chantry roles, but still rubbish. If it wasn't for that signet, he was fairly sure he would want to be her friend.

The silence was getting uncomfortable.

"Now you say I'm mental or laugh or something," Samson mentioned.

"I wouldn't laugh," she assured him, "This is part of my job, and I _did_ have somewhere I needed to be. Is there a way I can make you less nervous before I go?"

"You're just going to leave?" Samson demanded. This was the worst possible outcome, "Can't you tell me something about what you think?"

The Seeker paced forward, appearing less afraid, but an air of innocence remained. "I think your nightmares are interesting, although I really don't know enough about them to make any comments."

"What about me? Are you going to ramble to Evitt about how rotten I am?"

Seeker Elizabeth looked sorry for him, the first he had noticed her do so. Usually, this reaction would annoy the daylights out of him, but it was so unusual, he only became interested by it. "Do you want an honest answer about that?"

"Yes, please."

She sounded exasperated. "It does sound bollocks, because I have rarely met people who are as connected to the Fade as you are. I do think you're a bit off your face because of it – that's the Fade, right? That's part and parcel of it… I won't hold it against you. You're a nice bloke. That's far more important to me than any bizarre ideas or experiences. I'd only tell someone if I thought you were a danger to yourself- and if that happened, I'd be very careful of who I tell and what I say. I… I won't tell her." Her bluntness was refreshing. "Besides, Commander Cullen let Seeker Evitt and I know about that incident that happened the night you woke from being unconscious. He warned us to be very careful about what we say, given a near stranger set you off, so that is what I am doing." The woman sighed. "But… I thought I'd educate you about one important Orlesian custom."

"Alright?" Samson answered, reassured that she had given her brutally honest opinion, but bewildered it didn't make him feel upset. Maybe it was Cullen's fault he assumed everybody wouldn't be brutally honest with him. Or rather, Cullen shared his honest opinions in a brutal way.

"You saw Leliana and Seeker Evitt do so this morning. It's the kiss on both cheeks. It's weird at first but you get used to it. _Bisou_ has more closeness than a handshake. It's only done between persons with a certain level of rapport." She explained it as casually as easily as she had done with how to attach hair extensions, "What we were talking about. They have to be stuck between a stranger and a friend, or higher than that. Strangers, no - but if that person is related to a friend, maybe… Context is important."

"No kisses for Grand Clerics." Samson was relieved and happy by this, and Seeker Elizabeth laughed. It was the first time she'd laughed at anything he said. The laugh wasn't like from the nightmare. That was reassuring.

"You're getting it!" her smile softened.

She leaned forward and pressed the side of her face against his, giving a light kiss on each, a lazy gesture. He awkwardly tried to copy, though he was too slow. Seeker Elizabeth wasn't fussed, either way.

Now the déjà vu reappeared, and he tried to think of what similar imagery would inspire that.

_It was so dark almost pitch black. A single flicker of flame came from a candle to the right. The lookalike was giggling slightly as he kissed her face. She did the same for him. The young woman gasped. As he kissed her right side, he noticed a scar above an eyebrow, and as he kissed her mouth and trailed to the other side, he spotted a small mole. She was lying on a hard surface, although blurry and strange, identifying a location was impossible. No matter how many inches he peered down, her bare skin continued, and beads of sweat, and her rib-cage as it expanded and contracted gradually, each rib visible. He counted them as he ran his fingers over them, tracing them, as if to memorize them, like one day they might shatter. Her voice moved him, made his bones tremble with the sound. The song of despair and her breath was one entity, starting, and stopping, and then slowing. The more he looked at her, the more unreal the illusion became, like peering at it through a frosty window. The stranger's body was stirring, a demon, a threat, and her arms were pulling him close, but as he pressed against her, the boundaries and outlines bent, and his soul was annihilated._

"What's wrong?" she inquired.

Suddenly, he wondered if he might be blushing. These nightmares were a curse, the most detrimental and poisonous of curses. What an embarrassing nightmare. He could never tell her the truth. From this distance, he noticed, that this Seeker did not have a scar above her right eyebrow, or the same mole on her left cheek.

This wasn't right. His brain was to blame. There was no reason for this experience to occur, it was all his insanity. Yet… life was so _wrong_ when sleep tried to twist his brain to shreds. He didn't want to accept its only purpose was to destroy him.

"Do you believe in superstitions, Seeker Elizabeth?"

The woman looked concerned. "Like what?"

Samson put a finger to his chin. "Do you think I'm Andraste's chosen?"

Seeker Elizabeth frowned. "Duty dictates I say yes, but I'm honestly not sure. Sometimes I hope so, or believe it. I think we will find out either way."

"Do you think Andraste can send help to other people too?" Samson continued, "Maybe I have this lookalike in my head because it was a sign that I was meant to meet you, that one day you could be important. Like a premonition." And he had to try cover up how insane he sounded, "Err, I'm only guessing."

"I don't know," she said, and it wasn't clear if she was angry, sad or plain confused, "but I have a boyfriend."

"Uh, sorry." Damn it. He could understand why she'd make that assumption, but that wasn't the point. "I wasn't trying to insinuate anything along those lines."

"I need to leave to meet him for dinner." She paced to the door. "The Inquisition isn't the only ones stressing about the meetings between the Grand Clerics." She quickly turned around, "I'm sorry. I'm going to be late if I don't, but… take care."

She left just like that, and Samson, despite all his efforts, wanted to believe his illusions were all a sign for greater times to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Schattenriss for the beta. This story will be going on a hiatus now, until I am further through my Samson prequel. Please leave comments and kudos, people. This story won't be gone forever.
> 
> For those who are curious of what the latin was in the nightmares, it doesn't make any difference to the story if you know or not. As I shall now demonstrate, it is complete jibberish:  
> The girl's lines: H-him back! The claws of the paper, and do not want to make any question.  
> The other voice's line: The greater good.


	15. Val Royeaux II

* * *

"We waited for you," Leliana said, indicating some paté, baguette and a miniscule bowl of soup on the small rectangular table against the left wall. When they'd dropped their belongings here in the morning, Samson had been too sleepy to appreciate how diminutive their room was. He expected Orlesian Inns to be bigger for some reason, though in contrast to the tent it was a welcome relief. The patrons were expected to dine in a communal area but he got the impression they were done with communal for the day.

He stared at it. "Is this what Royans eat for supper?"

The two women were seated on the floor, as the table had very little space to put anything, and only one functioning chair. They'd used the time he'd been away to get changed, and appeared weary-eyed and prepared for sleep.

"Only us," Cassandra said grimly, "we must take care not to overspend, taking into consideration how much coin we used today."

"But the purchases were necessary!" Leliana gaped, indignant.

"It changes nothing," Cassandra retorted.

Samson ate his meal silently in front of them.

"How are you?"

Samson thought Cassandra was talking to Leliana for a moment, except the Spymaster was looking at him too. From somewhere habitual in his mind, Samson replied, "Thank you for feeding me."

"That does not sate our curiosity," Leliana answered with a sly smile.

 _I don't care about your curiosity_ , he thought. "I am dead inside. There's nothing for me to say."

Cassandra looked non-believing. "Why do I doubt that is all there is?"

"Yes. What were you so eager to speak to Seeker Elizabeth about?" Leliana inquired.

Now the conversation with Elizabeth was over, Samson had no inclination to revisit, revise or manipulate the interaction again. In the void of his mind, a malignant instinct for cruelty seeped inside him. Leliana must never reach out to this sickness, his damage, lest it infect her and she decay with him. Samson improvised a lie so unreasonable and corrupt he knew it would offend her. "I wanted her opinion on how I could best seduce you. She disagreed when I suggested defiling your Chantry books with my seed and then writing poetry over the dried stains. I thought it was a pleasant offering."

Cassandra groaned, though it wasn't like her usual groan. She put her face in her hands. Leliana's regard was cold, though she flushed pink in the cheeks from indignation.

" _Why_ ," Cassandra demanded, sounding beyond fatigue, "do you tell us such salacious lies?"

A tense pause followed. He wasn't sure what to say. Suddenly, it was as though a light illuminated the worn hollow of his skull, and he could see nothing there.

"I… didn't mean to," he said blankly.

Leliana exploded at that. "Yes, you did!"

The temptation was to wrap her wrath around his finger and use it for his own amusement, so Samson forced himself to not say anything.

"I told you I just say shit without thinking about it."

"You _should_ think about it," Cassandra advised, sternly.

"He did think about it, Cassandra," Leliana rambled, the colour draining from her face, "That is the problem with him. He has a misguided habit of hurting others." Then she peered at Samson. "You noticed I am talking about you in third person. It irritates you, doesn't it?"

As though to distance himself from those in the room, Samson put his half eaten bread and soup to one side.

"Don't talk to me when I am tired!" Samson shouted, "Don't ask me personal questions! Don't push me around or tell me what to do!"

"Stop yelling," Cassandra warned loudly.

"Clearly, you don't like having others care for you," Leliana deduced, "That was the only reason I was asking."

"Caring is a curse of the mind, Leliana," he snapped.

"Only for you," Leliana seethed.

"I'm not arguing! I'm agreeing!" Samson retorted, with a wave of his arms to try to emphasize the point. " _Agreeing_! Women like being right, especially bitchy ones like you. So smile! Be smug. You're right, sweetheart, now fuck off."

"Stop this now," Cassandra said it so calmly it shocked him into silence. Leliana might have been the same. They both looked to the Nevarran. She looked stoic. Turning to him, she said, "Samson, you are behaving how you did when we first found you. Will you explain why?"

"I already said," Samson chided, "I'm tired, I'm tired, Leliana is nosy, and, oh I forgot, I'm TIRED!'"

"Then just say that!" Leliana shouted.

"No," he shot back, "If I say I'm tired, people ask questions. If I hurt them, they go away. Make them bleed, and they don't crawl back like pathetic, all-feeling humans!"

"That does occur when you hurt people enough times," Cassandra acknowledged darkly, and she turned away, "Leave the room, both of you, until you can apologize. Go. Otherwise the tally will begin from where it was this morning."

 _To the void with the tally!_ was Samson's first thought, but then he remembered, _Wait, but I'll be more a corpse without my red,_ _and_ then _Lady Josephine will find out!_

He didn't want to explain to the nicest person in the Inquisition that the reason he hadn't appreciated Val Royeaux was because he'd been a slimy git with a potty mouth. Josephine would be so upset!

"We're not children," Leliana protested.

"Yes, you are," Cassandra said firmly, "Now go."

Samson was really tempted to keep driving Leliana into the ground, but he knew that would be taking matters into the realm of the irreparable. That wasn't worth it. He put his food onto a small table, found his night clothes from a sack and stormed out.

* * *

His skin turned to ice within minutes, and no matter how much it burned, he endured it. The showers in the Inn had good water pressure, so even the force that the stream impacted him was painful. His mind cleared from sheer physical agony, he let it stay that way for a few minutes. Then he turned the water off and as it dripped, his thoughts, some more rational, sluggishly returned.

Confused, but ready to apologize, Samson got changed and left.

* * *

"She hasn't come back," Cassandra said, as soon as he entered.

"I don't care," he muttered, but he knew he did.

The Seeker passed him his half eaten baguette. "Are you prepared to be an adult?"

Samson nodded. "Sorry for losing my shit."

Cassandra sighed. "Thank you."

"I'm not sure why I said that rubbish to Leliana," he continued, "I was much kinder earlier. Elizabeth asked me a nosy question and I didn't lose it. I didn't even feel angry. She was just trying to help."

 _Help that I had asked her_ _for_ , he realized

Cassandra raised one curious eyebrow, "Was there that much differentiation between Seeker Elizabeth and Leliana simply because you were exhausted?"

Samson sighed, "I guess. But I don't feel like you do. I don't feel like anyone. _Tired_ is another hellish depth in my head. I really hate it."

"Forgive my asking," Cassandra said, "but… no, if you need any assistance, you may ask."

"Ask and don't receive, Cassandra."

The Seeker seemed unable to determine what to say to that comment. He chewed at the bread, feeling like he had won this round. Once his stomach was filled, and the silence eased his conscience, he found there were questions he had for Cassandra.

"Do you like being a real princess?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

"I've never had a wealthy bloodline. What's it like?"

She sighed. "Truthfully? I despise it. The Pentaghasts are a very large clan, but most are fat and lazy. My Uncle always treated me like a porcelain doll, only dusting me when he had need for me."

"You're not with those prats now. How do you like being of royal blood here?"

"I do not know anything else," Cassandra mused, with a distant tone, "The people tell so many stories about me, it makes me wonder how many have sworn themselves as my enemy based entirely on information that is false and fabricated."

"I know the feeling," Samson said.

"However," Cassandra, distrusting, briefly met his eye, "my lack of a family persuaded me to escape Nevarra and my bloodline allowed me to join the Seekers of Truth, so perhaps it was not without reason."

Samson nodded, pondering on the implications of her story. Sometimes, he theorized family was a key motivator in joining the Templars at six years old.

"I do often think about Knight Commander Meredith, and what could have been done to prevent the mage Templar revolt," she added. "You had a point in Haven, about seeking out more information before coming to the conclusion that she was justified. I do not know what I would have done if I could experience it again, though... I did not want to admit you were right because I do not enjoy feeling like I am responsible for her death, and those of so many others. Of the world."

Samson sniggered. "Maybe joining the Inquisition wasn't a great idea if you didn't want that responsibility." Then calming down, "S'nice of you to say."

Cassandra observed him, uncertain. "I am curious of your motivation for conversing about this with me."

Putting on a mock look of offense, Samson declared, "I'm only a lazy, corrupted human, asking nosy questions."

Cassandra chuckled. "Perhaps. Do you consider the Free Marches your home?"

That had an easy answer. "My home is wherever my family is."

"I see. Your mother and father?"

"No," he replied. "Family isn't about who created me."

The Seeker looked warmly at him for the first time this evening. "I am inclined to agree."

"What Seeker powers do you have, Cassandra?" Samson wondered.

"I can set the lyrium within a person's blood aflame."

"Such a vicious punishment," the Red Templar laughed. "Why not use it on me?"

"I ask myself the same every minute, at times," she admitted, with a glare.

Samson grinned. "If you ever want to try-"

"I admit I do not know how it would affect red lyrium. The agony is so severe it can make someone incredibly ill and unthinking for days afterwards. That has no use for you, or the Inquisition."

He remembered something. "Do you know what powers Seeker Evitt and Elizabeth have?"

Cassandra squinted and tilted her gaze to the ceiling for a moment. "I recall Elizabeth's well. The malodour she would carry with her after a battle is difficult to forget."

"Why?"

"My power-the burning from the inside- there are variations on its strength. Seeker Elizabeth's could be seen as one. Her gift is to melt flesh in a matter of moments by looking at a person."

Samson was startled by this, and a strong sensation of déja vu. He remembered noticing her glare _looked_ like it could kill, but he didn't take it literally. "The stink of melted flesh is foul."

"From what she told me, it is like waving around a nocked arrow of a bow- slip a finger, become too absent minded and a life can be taken away. I do not know the exact limitations of it."

If he had this power, Samson was sure half the world would be destroyed by now. "Doesn't your power work like that?"

"The mechanics of it are different. I do not need to have my target in direct sight, though they do need to be some feet away, and it is more influenced by my intention rather than my emotions. For Seeker Elizabeth, there is a large emotional component. Keeping those under control is imperative, and she is careful not to be reliant on her gifts. Losing control of it has caused her to nearly be removed from the Order on multiple occasions."

"She throw a hissy fit or something?"

"I do not know the details," Cassandra said, "and I recommend you don't ask. As you might be able to imagine it makes Orlais, a country where emotional expression is discouraged, a very suitable place of residence for her."

"And Evitt?" Samson inquired.

"I'm afraid I do not recall Seeker Evitt's well, though it was unusual," Cassandra explained, "Whatever it was, I do remember their powers complemented each other adeptly."

Which led the Red Templar to wonder what exactly was a good addition to the burning of someone's skin. Leliana didn't return back to the room after their conversation, so Cassandra encouraged him to sleep.

* * *

He woke from a nightmare and, for a second, tried not to push away the sensations. Elizabeth wanted details. What he had so far he didn't want to share. Maybe a specific that did not involve alcohol or sex would come to mind, something that would be easier to explain.

The sensation of destruction pulled through his entire body like electricity, like he wasn't human, after all. It felt searing, like fire, and somehow freezing underneath that, layers of unpleasantness. Hot, cold, hot, cold alternated depending on where he placed his attention, a cancer. He wondered if these were actually emotions but he just forgot what they felt like. And if they were emotions, they seemed very _solid,_ like iron, and it was strange.

_Who's this person in them? You said the nightmares blend into each other._

_She laughs a lot. Sometimes with me, sometimes at me._

He tried to think of the nightmare he had just had, fresher in his mind, something that involved… something pleasant, if anything was there.

_The girl was standing in front of him, with a smile, a gesture that held so much and so little. No truth, and so much lie. The floor directly beneath her was a whirlpool, a black hole, something ever moving and yet staying in exactly the same place, an aureole that could cast a grim shadow. She was striking, and yet nothing. Her dress was whitish grey like melting snow, a season changing from one to another. They were in the same tavern._

" _Fatum animalium sensim devorat."_

_It wasn't her voice, but the male one, somewhere indeterminate behind him, spread like sun through a wide window, echoing._

_A humming filled the tavern and one of the man's fingers painted a zig zag through the air before touching the girl's nose, a reminder that he existed, that there was more behind what she could see and what he did not know._

_The humming stopped. The twang of lute strings distorted the clatter from the other patrons._

_Her smile disappeared. The hum had been serenading her, and now it was gone, she was disappointed. Her eyes focused, the green looked bigger, holding within them a desire to escape something inevitable. She brought her own fingers to her nose once he moved them away, apprehensive; like she was concerned he had broken it._

" _Maestitiae? Foramen_ _?" the man muttered. A broken voice like how she had an injured nose, and now he was unable to scent poison, the very essence of her._

" _In necessitatibus," she said. Her mouth moved and her teeth were pulling together, vanishing or drifting apart as she spoke, an unreadable lip sync. She traced a pattern in the air and touched his face. He felt her fingers. They felt like nothing, the most beautiful nothingness. Then she traced it to closer to his lips. His mouth quivered with the weight of irreparable sin. She frowned as though this was her last chance to frown in her life._

" _Tentatio enim vacuum_ _," she said, to no one._

" _id est vos_ _," the man answered, "_ _et simul sensum absorbeat me centra_ _."_

_Their faces leaned closer, with much starting and stopping. The girl closed her eyes and kissed him, pulling him into that exquisite desolation. He could not resist. His strongest desire was to speak to her without words. The tavern was no more, and that was the only truth._

" _Custodi in caveam," he murmured._

" _Necessitatibus sunt neglegenda."_

This one was depressing still- maybe it would all be that way- though it wasn't as terrible as the others. Its vibe was slightly more like a dream than a nightmare. He pushed all the thoughts away, and the strange physical sensations were eradicated. Thinking he might be forgiven for snapping last night if he did something nice, he left the room to investigate breakfast.

* * *

For the meal they alternated sitting at the small table of their designated room, while the third person had a shower. When he savoured the second last mouthful of bread, a knock came on the door. Samson answered to find Seeker Evitt serene with a confident expression. Leliana and Cassandra were still eating.

Good morning," Seeker Evitt said, and she already surpassed the amount Leliana had spoken to him, "I am pleased you are organized so early."

She looked as effervescent as yesterday, and in the same armour.

"Has anything about the meeting changed?" Cassandra inquired, rising to her feet too.

"Yes, yes," The Seeker said with an excited bounce. "The meeting will be starting fifteen minutes later, though it has been cut half an hour short."

 _Less opportunity for torture, yet the torture might be more horrid_ , he thought.

"This means it is time to get dressed," Cassandra stated dryly.

Walking into the Grand Cathedral naked was preferable at the moment. "Do I have to?"

"We can watch the entire process, if that would appeal more to your vile interests," Leliana said with just the right amount of snark.

If she didn't look so cold, the Red Templar would have flirted back.

"I am not interested in that idea," Cassandra amended, briskly, as though she knew Samson would seriously consider Leliana's suggestion.

"I will be at the entrance," Evitt said uncertainly, "The morning mist hasn't quite lifted yet. It is beautiful."

 _Get your optimism away from me_ , Samson scolded internally.

"Ser Marcus would agree," Leliana told him.

Samson put on a pleasant smile. "Enjoy yourself, Seeker. I won't be long, and we can frolic in the mist together."

"Tone it down," Cassandra hissed in his ear.

"And I despise the condensation ruining my hair, but I imagine that is not a problem for you," he corrected.

Seeker Evitt shook her head. "I like the eeriness of the mist. It reminds me of something illusionary."

Since he was taking his nightmares into more consideration, Samson was interested by Evitt's possible interest in deceptive imagery. Maybe walking with her would be a pleasant experience, after all.

As Leliana put some clay coloured paste at the skin closest to his hairline, he kept focused on the mask in his hands.

"Have you forgiven me yet?"

"No," Leliana replied.

"Cassandra," he moaned, "Help me please."

"Stop being so much like usual, Leliana," Cassandra snapped.

This, pleasantly enough, made both Samson and Leliana chuckle.

The outfit he had put together was so expensive he didn't think he had worn anything like it in his life. Even in Kirkwall's winter he had never worn so many layers. The tunic was black with long sleeves, and a dark bottle green waistcoat over the top, with a pattern of tree roots engraved into the velvet like material (he had no idea what any of it was). The trousers were black and had a similar bottle green pattern. He had a pair of dark leather boots on and the belt he was given had a golden buckle. He put on the mask, savouring a moment to be impressed with the transformation so far. Finally he could understand what the appeal was in chasing rich bastards. His skin may be pasty, an unhealthy tinge remained in his eyes and his hair was thinned, but the other ninety percent of him looked amazing (he thought so, anyway).

When that was over, Leliana said, "When you can assure me why you will not be so foul ever again, then you will be forgiven."

"Clever idea, Leliana," he agreed to her plan. It seemed safe to say she would tolerate him for today.

"You look almost unrecognizable, impressively so," Cassandra admitted, scrutinizing the work they'd done, "though this is what we were hoping for. It is very nearly pleasant."

He had to admit he looked flamboyant and bizarre, but far less stupid than the majority of the locals. It was almost like he was seven years younger, at least.

Samson pretended to be flustered. "Oh, stop."

It was so rare to get complimented on his appearance these days. He hoped her comment was true.

The streets were practically deserted. Seeker Evitt was standing near the river on the other side of the pavement when they exited. Most of the morning fog had dissipated. She smiled when she saw them.

"Ser Marcus, friends." She gave a half bow. "You look so lovely."

"I tried," Samson said with a small smile. He felt more at ease already. He blended in the same way pompous assholes did and passers-by would stare from how striking he looked in the majestic attire.

They started to walk.

"He lies," Cassandra disagreed simply. "You did not."

"She speaks true! We did all the work, Seeker Evitt," Leliana assured her. "We had to practically force him out of his clothes."

" _That_ I can do without much convincing," Samson shot back, "It's putting this on which is bothersome."

The fashion for Orlais certainly encouraged a ridiculous bravado by the stern fabrics that could barely crease. It was like a corset, immobilizing the spine. The only piece of his outfit that didn't cling to his form was the trousers. It was a pity Varric was probably chopping down rogue mages at the Storm Coast. He would have found this hilarious.

"Did your night go smoothly?" Cassandra wondered.

"Very well, thank you, Cassandra," Evitt answered. "My dear sister Elizabeth did not arrive back at the Cathedral until much later, so I went for a walk to see a street theatre performance with a friend."

" _Magnifique_ ," Leliana praised.

"Were you content looking at the mist while waiting for us?" the Red Templar asked.

"Always." Evitt caught his eye. "I like to meditate and pray in that environment."

"You said you like how it looks faulty," Samson recalled.

"Indeed. I am very interested in altered states of consciousness," Evitt said, "There's so much we don't understand."

"Do you research it, then?"

By their expressions, Leliana and Cassandra seemed amazed he was conversing normally with someone.

"No. I don't feel that is my path," the blonde Seeker said.

"What about illusions piqued your curiosity?"

Seeker Evitt seemed to think about how to answer. "I have experienced more of the Fade than I feel comfortable to say. I think it could be used for positive if we embraced what it has to show us."

"Demons," Samson pointed out.

The Seeker looked darkly at him, or at least, it wasn't her calm aura from before.

"There is far more to the Fade than demons. From what I have studied, Tevinter, Dalish and Avaar culture are more open minded than this society about it. We can learn much from them."

They discussed other cultures approach to the Fade until they entered the looming gates to the main part of the city across the bridge, when the sun was beginning to be more apparent. Over the sides of the railing angelic granite statues poked out from mountains, with cottages and trees tended scrupulously. Even as he marched, he kept the stabilized stance engaged with the instruction he'd learned yesterday.

"The bridge is so empty." Leliana remarked, "It is bizarre."

"Many of the protesters have been arrested, yet the people are afraid." Cassandra said, turning to him, "Mostly of you."

"Proves they're all loudmouths with no substance," Samson acknowledged, "Doubt they'll be frightened for long. I dress as smarmy as them now."

"Though that does not fix your reputation," Leliana defied coolly

"I'd walk more briskly, if I may recommend it?" Evitt cut across them. "The Cathedral is a fair distance away still."

* * *

Samson tried to recall everything he was supposed to while weaving through those many rooms. It became more daunting once Leliana and Cassandra branched away with solemn nods of good luck and went to find another room to wait for him in. Seeker Elizabeth was stationed at the door. Something subtle about her deadpan expression could be read by her Seeker colleague once they got closer.

"What is wrong, sister?" Evitt hissed

"What does it look like?" Elizabeth whispered back.

"I thought we were permitted to sit in."

"Last second change."

"By whom?"

Elizabeth uttered so low it was almost a growl, "Jealousy monster."

"Curses," Evitt muttered.

Samson peered inside the room. It wasn't quite filled yet. Inconspicuous, he pretended to be interested in one of the murals. "Someone I should know abo-"

"Shh!" Evitt cut across him.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth nearly spitted in her panic, "Get inside! We will see you aft-"

"May the Maker guide you, Herald," Evitt interrupted, stolid.

 _May the Dead Maker help my memory, more like_ , Samson thought as he entered.

As he took his seat he pretended he was the ruler of this Cathedral. He owned all these fools. The furniture was pretty enough to denote as much, anyhow. Three women and two men were already at the table in their sweeping robes, picking at a plate of sliced fruit. Samson hoped they would be more focused on breakfast than what he had to say.

"Bonjour, Herald," one woman with a lazy eye said, "Breakfast?"

"Yes, yes, good day," welcomed a man with a straggly beard.

 _Don't eat any food that is offered to you. It will make you look unfocused_ , he recalled Evitt saying.

" _Non, merci_ ," Samson managed to say. He wrapped his fingers around the arm chair smugly as two more Grand Clerics entered the premise, two Templars Samson didn't recognize under their helms (he got accustomed on how to identify men this way), and an bulky older man with a Seeker signet on his armour. This greasy haired man peered unimpressed at Samson as he passed.

Good mornings and names were exchanged. Samson shook hands with an appropriate firmness- the kind of formal rubbish that was wasting precious time. Then seats were taken at the end of the table. The man leading the Templars was Lord Seeker Lucius. Samson counted, and he was quite sure they had enough numbers, until none other than Chancellor Roderick entered, with that hateful smile and the same attire as the rest of them.

 _You did come after all, whore stasher,_ The Herald suppressed contempt in a microsecond, annoyed that Roderick had been provided a seat at this meeting, and was in Val Royeaux at all.

The way to beat him was to be courteous.

"I believe that is everyone," Roderick said, with a quick look at the door, "Privacy is preferable considering the sensitivity of the information exchanged."

The ancient fool brought a hand to the door when Seeker Evitt piped up.

"I am terribly sorry, Chancellor, though with the unrest in the city I must insist the door remains open. Seeker Elizabeth and myself will keep the information strictly confidential."

It was quite obvious smarmy Cockface Roderick was displeased with this choice, though he said carefully. "No matter, if there are no objections, of course?"

Many eyes were on the Herald.

"Whatever suits the room," Samson replied, smoothly. No matter what, he could find a way out of trouble. He had specialized in evading the clutches of the law for years. A Cathedral would be a cinch.

"The two Seekers are a disgrace, for they have taken the side of Andraste's puppet," Lord Seeker Lucius boomed. His voice rivalled Samson's for the most gravelly, and in that moment he felt sorry for anyone who had ever heard him speak. "Such disposable allies of the Chantry are not to be trusted. They have stood next to the Order, but not with it. Their presence makes it irresolute, a power that threatens to fall into the void. No Templars but my own should be stationed where you stand."

"At once, Lord Seeker," Evitt replied, and she took one dutiful, large step… _inside_ the room. "Your Templars may stand at the door."

To try and not laugh at how Lucius's threat had been probably used against him, Samson offered water around the table, which was refused.

"Go," The Lord Seeker instructed. Not two, but one Templar stood on the other side of the door, taking Evitt's place. Evitt then copied the position of the Templar, situated feet away from Samson.

"There are questions, I believe, Chancellor Roderick," one Cleric said, "before you move on to other duties."

Samson got the impression everyone here hated Roderick too.

"I will leave mine until later," Roderick said.

" _Bien_ ," Cleric number three said, "Please describe some details about yourself, Ser Marcus. I am not familiar with your family."

_Repeat what you relayed to the Seekers yesterday._

"My House has a long history of training Knights in Markham- more on my father's side. My mother's family gathers materials to repair weapons. They fit together quite well. At least that's what my father says. I am the one oddity out of my brothers because I was drawn to the Chantry for my education."

"Fascinating," Cleric number four replied, with a tone of 'get a move on', "What inspired you to disengage from your family traditions?"

"A life of mindless fighting seemed worthless and uninteresting to me," Marcus described, "I felt like I needed a greater moral compass, a more honourable reason to fight, so I sought out the Chantry. I have never turned my back on it. And Starkhaven has a rich history- there was no greater city in the Free Marches."

(Samson hated Marcus for that perspective)

"How immensely pious of you," Cleric number two answered, "Your Inquisition has created much upheaval. To us, it is a disease. And so you see, in our eyes it cannot fix, but only tarnish the wealth and status of this city."

"How do you propose your Inquisition will repair the damages already done?" Cleric number one added.

"The Inquisition is an unknown. I understand the hesitance," Marcus answered. He smiled. "It is so strange and destructive to you, but that is where its strength lies. It is a power to rival or surpass others that have come before it. Something new can have new consequences."

Cleric number five frowned. "Elaborate, please. You do not sound coherent to me."

"I stand by what I said," Marcus replied, "The mages and Templars are in conflict with each other. Every country, every person has contributed to this outcome in some way, from one side. This means the same choices cannot be made. New ground needs to be paved. That is what the Inquisition is. The Inquisition can bring mages and Templars together by creating new boundaries for them to follow, and lead them to a righteous goal of defeating the common threat of the Breach."

"The proper term for that, Herald, is very idealistic," Chancellor Roderick said.

"It is not idealistic if executed with great minds and carefully," Marcus said with a nod, "That's why Orlais is so important. We need your help for it to be done properly. Your input, and what you can offer us, is indispensable. All I ask of you today is a chance to be trusted. If you disagree at a later moment in time, you are welcome to withdraw, but the Inquisition would be lesser without it. Our efforts will mean more with your assistance."

"That is reasonable in theory, Ser Marcus, yet I still disagree," Cleric one said, "Why not have someone on this council as Herald, as we are more able to dictate the needs of the Chantry? Why must someone from the Free Marches, such as yourself, dictate the requirements of the entire world?"

Marcus gave a small smile. That was a good question.

"I have seen both sides of the conflict, Clerics," he said. "The Starkhaven Circle had a violent history of conflict with mages. A rogue mage burned it down years ago, and there became more focus on how mages are treated since then. I have gained a lot of wisdom throughout my post there. Templars and mages work best when focusing on the common needs between them. Starkhaven Circle is stronger than ever because of these altered practices. The Grand Cathedral is valuable, although a combined approach would be much better for the Inquisition. We need to collaborate, not dominate."

"You should be ashamed for raising a puppet as Andraste's Prophet," Lucius grumbled. "If Orlais agrees to your terms, I declare it treachery, and will publically announce that Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection from this day, to the end of my days."

Silence hushed around the room. Marcus considered what to say, as the Clerics appeared restless.

"I apologize for interrupting, Lord Seeker," Evitt said, curtseying, "I think there has been a misunderstanding. There will be no more fighting. We only wish to cooperate and stop the Breach."

"Without Templars, Orlais isn't safe, and we won't be able to provide any forces," Cleric number three explained, looking crestfallen. "Joining the Inquisition would mark our end."

"By the name of the Maker," Marcus swore quietly, "Andraste preached about autonomy, freedom, respect. These are the values the Inquisition will uphold. All due respect, Lord Seeker, but I don't understand how withdrawing your support from the city you've sworn to protect is doing the Maker's work. Keeping Andraste's message in mind is the only way resolution can be met."

(Samson wanted to punch Marcus for saying such rubbish)

A cacophony of bickering erupted in the room.

"There is no other choice."

"We have no need for a Rebel Inquisition."

"The current circumstances are obvious evidence that the current methods are not appropriate," Marcus pressed.

"Order will fall to chaos if this rebellion turns to a plague," Seeker Lucius growled.

_Orlais withdrawing its support was all Lucius's fault! Argh!_

"While on the subject on faithless puppets…" Chancellor Roderick leaned forward. "I have irrefutable evidence of the Herald's treachery."

"Yes, Grand Chancellor?" Marcus asked pleasantly, "It would be my pleasure to help clarify anything."

Chancellor Roderick took out a sheet of parchment from a satchel and positioned it in front. "Would you care to explain how you were permitted entry into the Conclave?"

Samson hesitated. "The same as everyone else." Lie. "Why?"

"This is a spare copy of the Conclave guest list," Roderick elaborated, "and you are the type to claim the Maker Himself orchestrated your arrival- yet there is no record of a Marcus Regnier here."

It was tempting to look back at Seeker Evitt for some guidance, but he didn't.

 _Where did the whore stasher get that copy_? Samson demanded within, though he knew better than to ask and change the subject. All the other Clerics were leaning forward ever so delicately in their chairs.

"I was a last minute addition," Samson invented, "Took the seat of someone who was ill. I don't think they bothered changing it on the paper."

He kept his expression neutral, praying to the Elder One the story would be believed.

"There were no last minute changes to the list," Roderick said slimily, "All the seats were taken, and upon arrival the names had to have been confirmed. This leads me to wonder about the circumstances surrounding your attendance."

"I am sorry about that," Marcus said calmly. "It should have been changed. I don't know what happened."

"I am inclined to believe you broke entry," Roderick ventured, "which makes your inclinations suspicious. And I question why you suddenly remember aspects of the Conclave, when the word in Haven was that you could not remember anything."

He was the innocent one here. "The paper helped me remember that part. It's all foggy otherwise."

"That is enough, Grand Chancellor," Cleric number five answered, "Ser Marcus, I am curious if you recall your reasons for attending the Conclave, if you were indeed a spur-of-the-moment arrival."

"Give me a moment, please," Samson said, pushing away the idea _of to bring about The New World. "_ I had a partner who moved to Fereldan to visit family, and while I was in the area I wanted to see if there was any chance of attending. I needed something to do."

The fictitious tale was inspired from Faith, and a twang of déja vu hit him- an obvious enough connection.

Cleric number four laughed. "Are you trying to say you followed your lover, perhaps unwanted, into her home city to visit her?"

"That is not information many would think highly upon you for," another Cleric said, unamused.

"I am so sorry," Marcus pressed, earnestly, "I only wanted to provide the truth, even if it wasn't my most honourable moment. I asked for the Maker to cleanse me of this urge, and He didn't. I am so ashamed I followed her."

(Marcus was such a fuckwit)

Roderick examined him carefully. "What is it about your dalliance inspired you to be so foolish?" he demanded, "I fail to see the connection between a woman and the Conclave."

"She was a lover of mages, and wanted to be there for her mage family members during that time, to make sure no harm would come of them," Marcus explained. "Apart from being bored, I thought she would be impressed if I attended."

"How childish of you," Roderick sneered.

"His honesty is foolish," Cleric number three said.

"I think we can move along. This meeting needs to come to a close," Cleric number seven said.

A clunk came from behind Samson and an arm reached across him. The Templar from next to Evitt had approached the table and poured himself a mug of coffee from the kettle in the middle of the table. Then he lifted the mug with his fingers and held it in front of Samson.

"Coffee, monsieur?"

After saying nothing for so long, Samson had forgotten the bloke could breathe, let alone move. He tried to remember if drinks had the same rules as eating but a voice entered his head.

_The noise, louder, you must run, run._

A male voice.

_There is no danger here. You will be perfectly accommodated._

A female, one he wasn't sure if he knew or not.

Utterly confused, he decided to ignore both voices.

" _Non, merci_ ," Samson responded, "I would like to keep to schedule."

There were nods of agreement from around the table.

The Templar sniffed and took a sip of the mug. "Yes, Herald."

But Roderick wasn't done with his questions. He never was.

"Who was this woman you deemed worthy of trailing like a common fool?" Roderick questioned.

"A high end prostitute," Samson replied, even though he knew he shouldn't have said that, "I know that is shameful."

The Templar at the door sniggered. Samson smiled ruefully. He really shouldn't have admitted that, but he had woven some truths loosely into the lie. Hopefully it would be enough.

_You don't understand. It is not good to be here. Claws, they have knives, knives of cruelty, and real knives too._

_The voices aren't real. The fear isn't real. I am real. I am always real. The helper. Listen to me._

_Run. Only liars say they never lie._

China shattered from somewhere behind him and a woman's voice screamed, " _Sister_!"

"What madness!" one of the Cleric's exclaimed, but Samson only absorbed their surprised gaze for a fraction of a second. He spun around, locking his eyes on the perpetrator, and propelled a burst of silver from his palm. The novice Templar spell wasn't as focused as it could be. It partially rebounded off the Templar's armour, though it caught the enemy off guard, enough for his sword to lose its momentum, enough that Evitt created an ice blue barrier from what looked like the broken down pieces of the mug. Samson wasn't certain, neither did he have the capacity to comprehend the sight. One moment, the shards and hot coffee splatters were scattered around her boots, and the next, they'd disappeared. Small blisters and cuts were slowly forming over her face. She pulled out her sword, and Samson, having no weapon, decided to take a step back, and narrowly evaded a burst of red from the Templar near the door, who was trying to fight off Seeker Elizabeth. The Clerics and Lord Seeker Lucius were unable to leave, while fighting was occurring so close to the door. If these Templars were attacking them, and they were spitting out red Templar powers, there was no doubt. These were Corypheus's lackeys out to kill him.

"I may be Andraste's puppet," Samson bellowed, to make sure Lucius could hear him, "and Andraste might have been a puppet too, but at least she wasn't the puppet of some tosser Elder One!"

A shriek pierced to the high ceiling and Seeker Elizabeth stormed over to the second Templar, sword pointed and prepared to strike.

" _We have no need for the others_ ," came the woman's voice in Samson's head, while Lucius announced the same, " _Leave them_!"

"Oh yes, we will gladly allow you abandon Val Royeaux," Elizabeth roared, "Like that's so much better than our plan."

She hurled her shield and body weight against the exposed side of the second Templar.

"We will stand against the void with as much power, if not more," Samson added to her argument, "Though the Breach closes with it. We will prove ourselves worthy by the actions we take, not the speeches we memorize."

The Templar near the door, light headed, stumbled after Elizabeth, nursing one of his arms.

A half-hearted, probably misfired burst of red crossed the room from there and all of a sudden, Samson was paralysed. He waited for it to wear off, not wanting to waste his energy. Seeker Evitt and the other Templar were clashing swords.

A crunching sound would have made him cringe if he could move, and he noticed the Templar's fingers appeared to have broken. The acrid scent of burning filled the air.

"What is all the comm-"

"Cassandra!"

_Leliana and Cassandra!_

Almost at the moment where Samson's paralysis would have worn off, he screamed and fell to his knees at the impact of feeling like his blood vessels were twisting and asphyxiating him. The scream was delayed as until his bodily function returned, then it became a gasping, since he found it hard to breathe. Then beyond the limpidity of torment, he heard the echo of the woman's voice in his head.

" _We only want to take back what is rightfully ours."_

A burly hand clapped on his shoulder, and he ceased to grasp where he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the story will continue its hiatus from here on. The only reason this next installment was added because it ended up being too long to fit into the next bit - and it didn't risk a continuity error. Thank you Schattenriss for proof reading.
> 
> For anyone interested, this is what Google translate claims the latin in the dream was- guaranteed jibberish!  
> Male: Weird Animals slowly devours. [pause] Sorrow? Hole?  
> Female: The needs. The temptation of empty.  
> Male: That is you. At the same time the centers swallow me. [pause] Keep in cage.  
> Female: Needs are disregarded.


End file.
